


(me and you) and the world between

by talkplaylove



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Asian Mythology & Folklore, Blow Jobs, Bucky’s arm is a magic conduit, Canon-Typical Violence, Cop Steve, Cuddling & Snuggling, Explicit Sexual Content, Fake Character Death, Filipino Mythology & Folklore, Fluff and Smut, Human Trafficking, Implied Kidnapping and Torture, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Magic, Masturbation, Minor Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Murder, Mystery, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Slow Burn, Some blood and gore, Supernatural Elements, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and now mixing the HYDRA cocktail of badness, bc thats how our folktale and myth creatures roll, mage!Bucky, pregnant women and fetus as victims
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-07 20:11:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 42,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16415138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkplaylove/pseuds/talkplaylove
Summary: Steve winces. “Long story. We need to get out of here, there’s too many of them and I don’t need you getting caught in the cross—what’s that?”In the shadows, it looks like there’s a body prone on the floor. Steve squints. “Is that a body?”“There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for this,” James whispers.The footsteps draw closer. Steve breathes. He’s in an alley with a suspect in one of his murder cases, who happens to haveanotherdead body with him. Meanwhile, behind him, gunmen are chasing him down right after he refused Pierce's orders to drop the exact same case.There’s nobody to trust.Or the one where supernatural creatures walk the earth, Bucky's a mage, and Steve's the police captain who has no clue.





	1. The Body

**Author's Note:**

> **This fic is complete and all chapters will be posted today in full.** **Please heed the warnings and tags!!**  
>  For the Captain America Big Bang 2018. All the lovely art you will see here is by [angstassart](http://angstassart.tumblr.com), who surprised me with so many wonderful pieces for this fic!!! More thank yous at the end ♥

It starts with a call at three in the morning.

“Cap?” Sam’s voice comes over the line, clear as day. “Sorry to wake you, but I think you might want to be here for this.”

Steve rubs a hand over his face and blinks at the ceiling. He’s still in bed, pyjamas loose around his hips. He’s only gotten four hours of sleep, coming off a double shift. 

Steve’s a morning person, usually, but the _sun_ isn’t even out yet. He stifles a yawn as he moves, feet landing on the cold wooden floor of his bedroom. 

“What is it, Sam?” Steve asks, already heading to his closet to grab something suitable to wear. His fingers hook in the metal holds, cabinet doors displaying neatly pressed uniforms, jeans, and shirts.

“We found a body,” Sam says. There’s a pregnant pause at the other end, and Steve’s brow furrows. He knows that Sam wouldn’t call him in just for a body. 

“What aren’t you telling me?” Steve asks as he grabs a pair of jeans. 

The silence on the line is loud. 

“It’s only half a body,” Sam finally says. 

Steve pauses, one foot in a pant leg, the other on the floor. He’s suddenly wide awake. He puts his phone between his shoulder and ear and gets into his jeans as quick as he can, deft fingers flying over the button and zip. 

“Top half or bottom half?” Steve asks, grabbing a shirt of the hook. His gut churns with anger, that anyone would do this to another human being. He closes his eyes and breathes, fights to keep his voice even. He’s always been quick to anger over injustices, a ball of fire even when he was small and skinny. But he’s been on the force long enough to know that showing his anger won’t help—while victimology will, by telling them more about the killer.

“Bottom,” Sam answers. “It looks to be a woman’s at the moment.”

There’s more that Sam’s not telling him. Steve can tell. He’s worked with Sam a long time, back when they were both rookies trying to prove their worth. Steve walks quickly through his apartment, shutting off lights as he goes.

“Alright. I’m on my way,” Steve says, grabbing his car keys off the hook by the front door.

***

The crime scene is a dumpster almost at the outskirts of the city, next to a brick one-story building. The building is old, though well kept. Surrounded by modern establishments, it sticks out like an era of ages past.

Steve parks his car next to the curb, Sam jogging up to greet him. The street is mostly empty. He notices the absence of Sam’s own patrol car and that of his partner.

“Sorry to wake you up, man,” Sam says, clapping Steve on the shoulder. “I know you just pulled a double.” 

Steve shakes his head, giving Sam a pat on the back. He’d have come, no matter the time. It’s his job, yes, but it’s really just the kind of person is. “Duty calls.” 

“I know we see a lot of fucked up stuff, but you can take your time if you need to,” Sam says as they walk towards the dumpster. The dumpster is unassuming, just a regular old dumpster, normal in the dark.

Steve steels himself before looking inside the container. Inside, lying among papers and plastics and other various garbage, is half of a body. It’s dressed in a long red skirt, the bottom edges frayed; white socks and white Converse sneakers, the red star faded. 

“How’d you find this?” Steve asks, looking over the body. It’s been disposed off hurriedly, with no attempt at concealment. 

“Riley and I passed by a dude peeing over there,” Sam says, indicating the far side of the building. “We stopped to give him a public indecency talk and take him in. He went to throw something out before we were gonna leave for the station and,” Sam shrugs, as if indicating _then we found half a body in the dumpster._

“Where’s Riley now?” Steve asks, looking at Sam. 

“Took the guy to the station. We’ll be holding him for questioning about J. Doe.”

Steve nods. “Have you called forensics?” 

“Yep. They should be on their way. Riley’s looking up the owner of this building too,” Sam says, pointing at the closed antique shop next to them. 

“Alright,” Steve stands back. There’s not much they can do until they can retrieve the body. 

“You think this is a one-off thing?” Sam asks. A body wouldn’t have been enough to call Steve in so suddenly, not when he would be at the station later on anyway. A body cut in half? That’s plenty of alarm bells right there.

“I hope so,” Steve says, a frown between his brow.

***

Maria Hill, Brock Rumlow, and a few of their crew arrive at the scene. Maria’s got her pokerface on, and strides over to the crime scene without making it obvious that she’s wanting to put distance between herself and Rumlow. If Steve hadn’t been working with Maria for years, he wouldn’t have been able to tell at all. She starts taking photos immediately as soon as she arrives, already in uniform and not a hair out of place.

Rumlow’s got an extra swagger despite the very early start of his shift. He starts bagging the evidence in and around the dumpster, while the crew prepares the tarps and the van for transportation. Rumlow’s the newest on their team; an addition over a year ago, all muscle and an ego to match. Still, he does his job. 

Sam’s talking to Riley on speaker phone, with Steve at his side. Their suspect has adamantly denied any knowledge of the body in the dumpster, only insisting that he was on the way home before nature called him. Riley’s put him in holding for public indecency, pending questioning for the murder.

“I found out who the antique shop is registered to,” Riley says. “They don’t live far from here.”

Steve nods at Sam. “You and Riley should interview your suspect, then go pay the owner of this establishment a visit. I’ll finish up here.” 

Sam glances at his watch. It’s already four o’clock, and the sun would be coming up in a couple of hours. Pretty soon, there’ll be more people passing by, trying to get a look at the scene—or worse, media. 

Sam nods in agreement. They bid goodbye to Riley. “Later, Steve.” Sam says, heading off to his car.

Steve walks over to the crew, watching as they scour the area for evidence. “Let’s try to keep the public off this for as long as possible. We don’t want unnecessary panic.” 

“Hurry up and hide the body, got it,” Maria says, face straight. Steve cracks a grin. Brock gives him a mock salute with a gloved hand, still holding a pair of forceps with a piece of bloodied tissue between the tongs. 

Maria pushes one of the cameras towards Steve, indicating the area where Sam and Riley’s suspect was found… sprinkling the area. “Come and help, Captain.” 

Steve wrinkles his nose.

***

Sam and Riley arrive at an apartment a few streets away from the antique shop an hour later, after a fruitless interview with their initial suspect.

“This person has a garden out in Brooklyn,” Sam says, looking at the small assortment of plants and flowers where they’d usually only be a few patches of grass.

“I would hardly call that a garden,” Riley says, looking over at the few plants behind the grate. 

“Plants! Outside!” Sam insists, even as he presses the buzzer. 

“As they should be, to get adequate sunlight,” Riley says. Under his breath, he mutters, “City boys.”

“Still,” Sam insists. “You ever see people with flowers outside their front stoop in this part of the city?”

“He might have a green thumb,” Riley says, checking his reflection out in the window. He fixes an errant lock of hair. 

Sam’s about to reply when he frowns. “They’re not answering.”

Riley instantly turns serious, traces of teasing gone. He rings the buzzer himself, pressing twice. “That should wake them up.”

They stand at the stoop, shoulders getting more tense every second. Sam presses the buzzer again, three short buzzes that they can hear even outside. 

After six minutes of waiting, Sam shakes his head. “Either this person sleeps like the dead…”

“There’s a phone number on the record,” Riley says, already on his phone and texting the headquarters for information. “Let me call him.”

“You think he did a runner?” Sam asks, looking over at Riley. Riley has his phone up to his ear, listening intently.

Riley sighs, hanging up, “It went to voicemail.” He presses the redial button on his screen again, to no avail.

“Well. Well,” Sam says. He looks at his watch. The long hand moves to six, clocking in at four-thirty. “Let’s hope they had a late night and are at someone’s place. Regroup at the office?”

***

They’ve got the body wrapped and packed up before the sun rises, the SUV driving away with Brock when a man walks up to the scene.

“Sorry, sir, no civilians allowed,” Steve says, almost on auto-pilot, crossing his arms over his chest.

“That’s…” The man gives Steve a once-over, narrowing his eyes, which makes Steve remember that he’s in civilian clothes as well. Steve stands his ground. There’s police tape behind him, anyway. 

Steve looks the man over. He’s almost as tall as Steve, with brown hair tied back in a bun, soulful gray eyes, and day-old stubble.

“What happened?” The man’s voice is gruff, and he’s leaning on his right side. He’s wearing a leather jacket, and it’s then that Steve notices that the left sleeve is empty.

Steve uncrosses his arms. “Sorry, it’s a private matter.”

The man licks his lips. His gray eyes dart to the antique store next to the dumpster. “That’s my shop.”

Oh.

“I’m Steve Rogers,” Steve says, pulling his badge out of his back pocket and flashing it at the man. “I’ll need to ask you some questions.”

The man opens his mouth, about to say something, when Steve’s ringtone permeates the air.

“Hold on,” Steve says. The man doesn’t look like he’ll turn around and run, which is good for Steve. Still, he keeps an eye on him as he presses his phone to his ear, body poised and ready for action in case the man _does_ feel like escaping. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“Steve,” Riley’s voice comes over the line. “The suspect isn’t at home. They aren’t answering their phone either. We-”

“It’s all right,” Steve says. “He’s here at the scene.”

The man, who had been flicking glances over Steve’s shoulder—Maria is still there, finishing the evidence collection—looks straight at Steve then. 

Steve feels a shiver climb its way up on his spine. The man really has beautiful eyes. Steve puts his phone away, clearing his throat. “Why don’t we start with your name?”

The man holds his right hand out for Steve to shake. “James. James Barnes.”

***

“I think I need to sit down for this,” James says. He glances again behind Steve, the dumpster, and Maria puttering about. James motions towards the shop. “Do you want to go in?”

“Should I come with you, Cap?” Maria asks, walking up to them with two evidence bags in her hand. 

“You can finish here and follow me,” Steve decides. To James, he says, “Lead the way.”

James does, opening the shop door with an antique-looking brass key. 

The shop is arranged in an artfully disarranged way. Armoires, wooden desks, chairs, and a lone sofa are placed in the shop in a way that should look haphazard but aren’t. The register is behind what Steve supposes is a display counter, draped over with a white sheet. 

James sits down on the couch. “So. What’s in my dumpster?”

Steve remains standing, facing James. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Don’t you already know?”

James snorts. “If I did, I wouldn’t be asking you.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time a suspect denied knowledge of a crime,” Steve says.

James eyes narrow. “Watch it, bud. You’re close to flinging accusations.”

Steve sighs and runs his hand through his hair. He’s right. Seeing a body on four hours of sleep is never a good experience, much more seeing a mutilated one.

“I apologize,” Steve looks at James in the eye. “We found a body in your dumpster.”

James mouth drops open. “The fuck?” His hand curls reflexively against his thigh. He looks surprised, confused, and a little scared. Huh. Steve catalogues the reactions, to file away for later. He doesn’t have much information to go on to conduct a full interview, since the body is still on its way to the morgue. 

“Where were you this morning?” Steve asks instead, carefully leaving out specifics like time of death. He can guess when the body was dumped.

“I slept over at a friend’s place,” James says, scratching his head. 

“And this friend can corroborate your statement?”

James glares at him. “Yes.”

“I’m just doing my job, James,” Steve says, holding both palms up. “Walk me through your night and this morning.”

James sighs. He leans forward, one arm on his knee. “After closing the store, I went home to shower. Then I went to a bar with my buddy, Clint. We drank. Clint’s place is closer to the bar than mine, so I crashed at his place. And now I’m here.”

Steve rakes a quick eye over James’ form. James is freshly showered, the hair falling from his bun still slightly damp. His clothes look neat and pressed, not like the clothes of someone who wore the same clothes after going to bar and spending the night over. 

Unless he already had clothes at the other place, of course. 

James must notice where Steve’s looking, because he darts a small smirk at Steve, but doesn’t say anything. Steve flushes; he really does need more sleep. Just as he’s about to ask James if he opens up shop this early, the door to the shop opens. Maria steps in, evidence bags safely stored away in a bag. She walks over to stand next to Steve.

“James Barnes,” James says, standing up, extending his hand. 

If Maria is surprised at a person-of-interest’s politeness and manners, she doesn’t show it. Suspects tend to be defensive, out of fear or anger. She shakes his hand. “Detective Hill.”

“Do you usually get in this early?” Maria asks. The grandfather clock chimes six times, as if to support Maria. James glances at it. Outside, the first rays of sunlight hit the pavement.

“I was on my way to get some breakfast,” James says. “Then I saw police tape next to my shop.”

“And what time do you usually open?” Maria continues. 

“Seven-thirty,” James says. “I close shop at four.”

“You get clients that early?” 

James snorts. “You’ve no idea. I aspire to be as energetic as the lovely ladies who look for antiques in the wee hours of the morning.”

Steve’s lips twitch, hiding a smile. Mornings are the peak time for sexagenarians at the police station, too.

And well, antiques might not be their only purpose. Mrs. Rosario from down the block drops by the station every Thursday, always with a question or report that she insists only Sergeant Wilson can solve. Steve wouldn’t put it past the Mrs. Rosarios in this area to drop by just to look at James.

Steve clears his throat. “My officers tried calling you earlier.”

“Oh,” James says. He shifts and pulls his phone out of his back pocket. The screen is dead. 

“Must’ve died on me while I was asleep,” James says, moving behind the counter to charge his phone.

Maria shifts. She exchanges a glance with Steve.

“That’s not a crime, is it?” James asks, at their silence.

“No,” Steve says. “We need your friend’s contact details, and the name of the bar you went to.”

James nods. “Clint Barton,” He dictates the address. “The bar’s called S.H.I.E.L.D., just off of Main. You won’t miss it.”

“Right,” Steve says. “We’ll have further questions for you, so we’d appreciate it if you could at least keep your phone on vibrate and with you at all times.”

“Can I… can I ask who it is?”

Steve and Maria glance at each other.

“You don’t know,” James realizes. He falls back on the sofa, back making a low thumping sound as it hit the seat. “If you did, you would have asked me about them. Fuck. What the fuck happened in my dumpster?”

“That’s what we’d like to know, too,” Maria says. “We’ll be seeing you James.”

Steve nods his goodbye. They leave James sitting stunned on the sofa.

***

“Do you think he did it?” Maria asks as they begin the drive to the station.

Steve concentrates on the road, hands on the wheel. “It’s hard enough carrying a body—or half a body. He’s got a great physique, but I don’t see how he could lift an adult body high enough to put it in the dumpster, much less mutilate it that way with only one arm. Still, we can’t discount anything.”

“Great physique, huh?” Maria says.

“Just observing,” Steve says. He feels heat climbing up his neck. 

“Mhhm. He does,” Maria agrees.

When Steve looks over at her in surprise, she just shrugs and tells him to keep his eyes on the road.

***

Bucky rubs his hand across his eyes. A body. In his dumpster. What the fuck.

He stands and walks to the door, checking if the police cruiser was well and truly away. Once he’s affirmed that the coast is clear, he grabs his phone and calls Clint.

“’Lo?” Clint grumbles from the other end of the line.

“Hey. We have a problem.”


	2. The Victims

Bucky sells antiques for a living. It’s a shop passed down from his grandmother, a small family business that withstood commercialization around the area. It helped that his family owned the lot. Should he ever sell the space, he’d be a millionaire thrice over. 

But that isn’t all that he inherited.

See, Bucky’s ma was the most powerful witch of her generation. And being the person she was, she used her powers to help those in need—a task Bucky and his sister Becca, took upon her death. 

To most people, Bucky sells antiques in his shop. But for those who know—Bucky’s antiques is only secondary to the family business. Bucky wields magic. He pours them into charms, amulets, and talismans that he sells in his shop. Most of the time, it’s pretty standard fare—glamours and notice-me-nots. 

The world is bigger than it appears. The supernatural community is underground and hidden, everyone doing their best to blend in the mundane world after centuries of war. But not every creature has a human-passing form, and some like living their lives above ground, immersed with the human population. 

Sometimes, creatures need protection from the elements. Usually, they need spells to hide from humans—the mundanes. Sometimes, Bucky dabbles in memory spells, sold at a very high price, for those who’ve trusted in the wrong mundanes and needed a way out.

And sometimes, Bucky’s knowledge of magic attracts people seeking _his_ protection. 

Which is also how he got into this mess.

***

It was two days ago. Bucky was doing his groceries, pushing his cart along the breakfast aisle when a woman stops in front of his cart and picks up a cereal box.

Bucky clears his throat. “Excuse me,”

“Are you Bucky Barnes?” Her voice is barely a whisper, her mouth barely moving. She’s wearing a white blouse that shows off pale shoulders, her hair dark and long. Her white Converse sneakers are frayed at the edges, scuffed with dirt. She glances once at his face, then his left side and then back to the box. 

Bucky stills. His eyes scan the area, his head not moving. There’s no one else at the aisle, but he can hear a man and woman arguing just at the other aisle.

Bucky can see her true form with the amulet around his neck. She has large wings on her back. When she opens her mouth, a long proboscis-like tongue comes out. Bucky doesn’t know what she is, exactly, but she doesn’t seem intent on attacking him at the moment.

“Yes,” he says. He’s ready to invite her to his shop, when she speaks. 

“Not here. There are eyes everywhere,” She mumbles into the shelf. Her eyes are reading the nutrition labels on a cereal box, one hand grasping the shelf. “Meet me in two days. Please.”

The circles under her eyes and the way her hands are trembling calls out to Bucky. 

She continues, her voice hinging on a desperate plea. “Please.”

“How does S.H.I.E.L.D. sound?” Bucky asks. He forgoes his shop as a meeting point; someone who obviously knew _who_ he was would know where he dealt, and had chosen to accost him in a public place anyway. Instead, he chooses a bar that would be populated yet secluded enough to have a private conversation. It helps that the bar is a hangout for the supernatural too. 

She nods. “Two days. Nine PM.” She looks at him in the eye, then flits away, to something behind Bucky. As she passes by him, Bucky hears her whisper. “Please come. I don’t know if I’ll be able to escape after that.”

She moves past Bucky without a goodbye, folding her wings silently as she squeezes by. 

Bucky should’ve known that people coming up to him outside of the shop or the bar were Trouble.

Two days later, Bucky enters S.H.I.E.L.D. at eight-thirty. The building itself is a trick. Mundanes who don’t know about it’s existence won’t see it. If they do know about a bar called S.H.I.E.L.D., they'll only be able to enter the first floor—a quiet, lounge type bar. At the back wall of this floor, however, is the entrance to the real S.H.I.E.L.D, a stairway leading underground.

Bucky sits by his usual corner table and waits, the usual thrum of the bar a background noise. The underground bar is heavily warded, a strong magic in place that lets everyone with a drop of supernatural in their blood see everyone else’s true forms. 

_Knowledge is power_ , one of the aged frames behind the bar says. S.H.I.E.L.D. is one of the safest places for the supernatural community in Brooklyn. The magic that lives in its walls is powerful and thrumming, strong even after years of its creation. S.H.I.E.L.D. was founded decades ago by a witch and seer named Margaret Carter.

On the dance floor, Bucky sees a banshee dancing with a vampire, two human girls gyrating and giggling together, a _half-youkai_ and a bespectacled shifter. At the bar, there’s a werewolf in tattered jeans chatting up an _okami_ and a _Yuki-onna_ drinking whiskey right next to them, her skin as pale as snow. He sees Clint up on the second floor. Clint’s wearing his dark purple vest, arms exposed. He’s got a tumbler of gin in hand, a necklace with an arrow pendant—his amulet—around his neck. He looks around the area, seemingly lazy and bored. 

Bucky gives a discreet nod in Clint’s direction. The corners of Clint’s mouth lift up in a smile, and that’s all the acknowledgment Bucky gets.

Bucky settles in his booth and waits.

The lights in the bar dim and flare. The music changes. Repeats.

Still, Bucky waits.

He waits until two in the morning, three empty bottles of beer on the table in front of him. He could wait longer, but the club is closing and Sharon, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s current owner, would kick him out, friend or no. Clint comes down from the second floor, two puncture wounds on his neck.

“She’s not coming,” Clint says, standing next to Bucky.

“Guess not,” Bucky agrees. It’s not the first time a client flaked on him. He ignores the little clench of worry in his gut. He can’t help everybody, especially those who haven’t told him what’s wrong. He nods towards Clint. “Didn’t see Nat drop by.”

“You weren’t supposed to,” Clint says easily. “Drop by my place for a nightcap.”

Bucky knows that’s code for Nat has news.

He nods. They nod to Sharon at the bar. Her hair is stringy and in disarray at this time of the night. She’s the founder’s niece, and also a half-kelpie. She gives them a grin and a wink as she wipes down the bar counter. 

The morning after, the police are on Bucky’s property.

***

Steve, Riley, and Sam enter the morgue that afternoon to get initial information about their victim.

Their victim is biologically female.

“See here?” Dr. Bruce Banner asks, his gloved hands indicating the victim’s pelvis. There’s a pen tucked behind his ear. 

“Yeah,” Steve says frowning. He doesn’t even need to move close to the body to see what’s strange about it. He’d noticed it earlier, but with the body in a dumpster, it was easy to be wrong. Now though, the body’s against a white sheet and cleaned for inspection. “It’s a clean cut.”

“It looks like it was done in one blow, so to speak,” Riley says, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Bruce nods, the pen dislodging from his ear at the movement. It rolls under the table. “There’s not a lot of weapons that can do that.”

“Is that even possible?” Sam asks. “The amount of force and strength alone needed for that would be… I don’t know man, extremely strong? Inhumanly strong?”

Riley nods. “Then, a machine would be a better explanation, no?”

“Agreed,” Bruce says. 

“Any ideas to what can cause this kind of damage?” Sam asks.

“That’s for you to find out, isn’t it?” Bruce asks, cocking one eyebrow at Sam. “I’m just here to inspect the body.”

Sam throws his hands up in the air. “The amount of sass I get, I swear.”

Steve shakes his head, fighting a grin. “All right, we should-”

“One more thing,” Bruce says. He flicks an apologetic grin at Steve for interrupting. “We have the blood samples at the DNA lab. And as procedure, we’ve run additional tests. There’s a lot of salt in her bloodstream.”

“Salt?” Steve asks.

“Salt,” Bruce confirms. “Normally, salt dissolves in the body. But with the amount of salt we found especially over here,” he indicates the cut. “I’m bound to believe that the salt was added ante-mortem.”

“Salt.” Sam says. 

“Yep.”

“…Do you think that’s their signature?” Riley asks.

“It’s not a serial murder,” Steve says.

The unspoken ‘yet’ is loud in the room. 

“Hopefully this is just one sicko that we catch ASAP.” Sam says. 

“We’ll catch him,” Steve says. 

“Or her,” Riley supplies, even if they all know this kind of mutilation is more common among male killers. 

“We’ll catch them.” Steve amends, smiling apologetically at Riley.

“Dumpster’s here!” Maria calls out from the bullpen. 

“Oh, joy.” Sam groans.

***

The clack of steady kitten heels click along the hospital corridor, as well as the squeak of sneakers. The smell of antiseptic and medicine permeates the air.

Dr. Helen Cho leans against the wall of the fourth floor’s break room, eyes closed. She’s had to deliver bad news to an expectant father again. 

It’s been a rough week.

It’s been a rough couple of months.

She needs a drink.

***

“There’s no record of our victim,” Riley says, an edge of frustration bleeding into his voice. “Her DNA isn’t in the system.”

It’s two days later. The team Steve’s put together for this case has already gone through the whole dumpster, but they weren’t able to find any more clues. Either through personal possessions or any other body parts that would have helped identify the body. 

“What about missing persons?” Steve asks. He’s sitting at his desk chair, looking at Riley and Sam in front of his desk. 

“We’ve a few, that would be around the same height as our vic, though none of them match the clothing last seen. Granted, clothes can easily be changed.” Sam says. 

Riley, Maria, Sam, and Brock had also done interviews around the area, with no one seeing anything suspicious the night or morning of the murder. James’ alibi checks out, both with his friend Clint and at the bar, where he was apparently a regular.

“So it’s a dead end.” Steve says.

“Yeah, unless.” Sam says, letting the statement hang in the air. They know what the unless means. 

Unless the rest of the body shows up.

Or they find another body.

Sometimes, Steve hates his job.


	3. The Disappearance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out [angstassart's](https://angstassart.tumblr.com) art for the fic [here.](https://angstassart.tumblr.com/tagged/mayatwb)

The next victim is found in an alley.

See, normally, the force would put it under abortions gone wrong. A malpracticing clinic, an unwanted pregnancy, a person at the end of their rope. 

But as soon as they see the body, they know that something is definitely, definitely wrong.

***

It’s Riley that gets the call. The team arrives at the scene, the cruiser’s siren off.

The woman is lying on the pavement. She’s staring at the sky, her mouth open, expression frozen in horror. She’s wearing a white floral dress, stained with blood and dirt.

“Found it while I was taking the trash out,” a man with day-old salt-and-pepper scruff tells Steve. “Called 911 as soon as I saw.”

Steve nods, putting his hand in his pocket. With his other hand, he motions to Riley to take over while he moves closer to inspect the body. Riley’s about to take the man’s statement when Brock walks up and taps him on the shoulder, handing Riley a camera.

“Let me take your statement.” Brock says as he turns to the witness, taking out his recorder. 

Steve lets his team work. As Brock interviews their witness, Maria starts photographing the scene. Riley starts taking photos of the surrounding area, while Sam looks for a possible murder weapon. Steve observes, walking around the victim and looking for clues. There seems to be no visible cause of death. 

Steve and Sam move to inspect the victim’s body once Maria is done photographing the victim. Her hair is a tangle on the pavement, black against gray. There’s dried blood pooled below her, but there are no visible wounds. 

Steve can’t shake the tingling feeling a the back of his neck. There’s something about the way the body is extremely pale that unsettles him.

Riley squats down next to Steve. Steve inspects the woman’s clothing. There’s no sign of tearing. She has no pockets, and no belongings—no purse or wallet on her to hold her identity. They work in silence, an observation or two exchanged.

Above them, the sun shines. 

“I’ve taken Mr. Watkins’ statement,” Brock says, approaching them some time later. 

Steve nods as he shifts his weight to his foot, one knee on the concrete. “Anything useful?”

“He didn’t see anything,” Brock says, shrugging.

Steve purses his lips. “Alright. Let’s take her to the station.”

***

In the fluorescent lights of the lab, a cold truth sounds more chilling.

The victim lies on a gurney, her dark hair cleaned. Her eyes had been closed, though her mouth remains open.

“She lost a lot of blood,” Bruce says, an expression of unease on his face. “It’s the cause of death. However, I couldn’t find any wounds on her body, aside from minor scratches on her hands that matches those sustained from falling on the pavement.”

“How is that even possible?” Sam asks, scratching his temple. 

“Also,” Bruce says, the slight hesitation telling them that the news was about to get worse. “The victim was pregnant.” 

Riley curses under his breath. Steve looks down and crosses his arms, frowning. Some people on the force have a scale for crime. Some hate murders the most. Some hate rapists, molesters. Steve? Steve wants them all put away. He wants the city to be a safe place. 

He doesn’t want this happening. 

“She was around thirteen to sixteen weeks along.” Bruce says, looking around at the team. He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “We’ve extracted the fetus and… the fetus doesn’t have a heart.”

There’s a beat of silence around the room as Bruce’s findings sink in.

“I don’t understand,” Steve finally says, shaking his head. It doesn’t make sense. “How can it grow without a heart?”

“It can’t.” Bruce says. “A heart can stop beating, or growing inside the embryo or the fetus. Not this far along. It can’t just… disappear.” 

“Are you saying someone operated and removed its heart?” Sam asks, eyebrows raising skeptically. 

“That would be a logical conclusion.” Bruce says.

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ here.” Riley says.

Bruce inclines his head in agreement. “But there aren’t any signs of a surgery around that area, both on the fetus and the mother.”

“So our victim had the blood drained out of her. Her fetus’ heart was removed.” Steve recapped. He rubs his hand against his mouth, as if he could remove the taste of bad news. 

“If this wasn’t real life, I’d say it sounds a little like one of the stories my mom used to tell me at bedtime.” Riley says, shaking his head. “It’s not a vampire, but a bloodsucker, kind of, and it would only prey on pregnant women and eat fetus hearts.”

Brock snorts, his disdain loud in the room. “I know you’re a long way from home, Riley, but we’ve got a real case here. Or are you just too excited for Halloween?”

Riley rolls his eyes at him. “I know that. I’m just saying.”

“If that was actually helpful—” Brock starts. 

Steve clears his throat before his team can start to snipe at each other, and tells them to go on break. 

It’s been a rough couple of days for everyone.

***

Helen makes her way through the smoky club. She lets her eyes adjust to the darkness, feet taking her to the bar. The music thrums in a relaxing beat. It’s 90s R&B night, her favorite.

“What can I get you?” Sharon asks her. She’s in her human form, and it’s early enough in the night that her hair hasn’t tried to revolt and show her true form. 

“Two bottles of soju,” Helen says. “Skip the glass.”

“Alright,” Sharon says, going through the shelves to pick out a couple of the green bottles. “Rough day?”

“Rough life,” Helen says, a little dramatically. “Rough couple of months, actually.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Sharon says. “Alcohol here’s to make you feel better.”

“Cheers,” Helen says, lifting a bottle and taking a sip. Sharon moves away to serve another customer at the end of the bar. Helen grabs both bottles and walks to an empty booth.

“Hey,” a voice behind her says. Helen _almost_ jumps. As it is, a bit of the soju spills out of the bottle and onto her hand. She makes a face, putting the bottles down on the table.

“Hey, yourself.” Helen says, turning around. She wipes her wet hand on Bucky’s shirt. Bucky’s mouth drops open before he shuts it.

“Serves you right for sneaking up on me,” Helen says, plopping down on the booth.

“I wasn’t sneaking up on you.” Bucky frowns as he slips into the booth. “Is that mine?”

Helen shakes her head, cuddling both soju bottles close to her. “Nope. Grab your own.”

Bucky leans back and gives Helen a disbelieving look. Helen doesn’t drink much, because she’s on call a lot of the time. When Helen doesn’t budge, Bucky sighs and orders a drink from the bar. 

Helen’s gone through one bottle, Bucky’s love life, Clint’s diet, and the latest season of The Bachelor before she finally opens up. 

“It’s just… there’s been so many miscarriages lately.” Helen frowns, looking out into the dance floor. “I know I’m not a parent, and those who’re going through this, what I feel isn’t even one iota comparable to what they must be feeling, but…” 

She trails off, letting the sounds of the club cover the conversation. 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says. “Delivering news like that, seeing it everyday—it still takes a lot out of a person.”

“Look how far we’ve come,” Helen says, looking at him giving Bucky a small half-smile. “Bucky Barnes, telling me my feelings are valid.”

Bucky raises his glass in salute. 

“Can’t believe I found you and Clint crashed in a dumpster,” Helen says shaking her head.

“Pixies, Helen. Pixies.” Bucky says, face solemn. His face breaks into a grin as he thinks about _that_ particular fight. 

Helen sighs, waving her hand as if to wave the image of two grown men lying prone on top of closed dumpsters near her hospital away. “To top it off, a pregnant woman was found murdered today a few blocks from the hospital.” 

“I’m sorry, Helen.” Bucky says again. “Want me to get you another drink?”

“Can’t you do something about it?” She asks, tilting her head. The corners of her eyes are angled upwards, fox-like, and her ponytail swishes once behind her head. 

“I’m not really sure what I can do against life, Helen.” Bucky says softly. 

Helen sighs. “I know.” She brings the bottle to her lips and drinks.

***

Steve’s working late, going over the paperwork for the latest case. Rumlow’s report usually needs a couple of read-throughs, his strength being brute force and a good aim, but he’s an essential part of the team like everyone else.

There’s a knock on his door and an uncertain “Cap?” from the doorway.

Steve looks up and sees Bruce. “Come in.” 

Bruce enters and closes the door behind him. Steve tries to keep an open-door policy with his precinct. The fact that Bruce chose to close the door makes him sit up in attention. He lays the papers down on his desk. 

“Cap,” Bruce says. His mouth is twisted into an uneasy frown and his hair is frazzled, like he’s been running his hands through them in frustration. “The body’s gone.”

Steve pauses, uncomprehending. Bruce’s sleeves are rolled up, eye bags pronounced, shoulders tense and face lined with worry in fear. Steve sits back in his chair, telegraphing calm. In this situation, Steve knows he has to keep Bruce calm first. “Start from the beginning, Bruce.”

The light in his office flickers once overhead. 

“The victim we found the other day,” Bruce starts. “The one that was split in half? I was doing a routine check before I left work and… it wasn’t in the morgue drawer when I checked.” 

Steve feels a prickle start at the back of his neck and crawl down his spine. 

“The body’s gone, Steve.”

Steve feels like the air’s knocked out of him.

Bruce slides to the floor, curly hair in his hands. “I don’t know what to do. I checked the morgue logs and nobody went in except me.” He takes a deep breath. “You know what happened to me in Harlem. I can’t lose this job.”

The precinct is quiet, and the air around them feels different, weighted. Unbidden, Steve thinks of those rare moments in time where everything feels like a dream, the feeling of something monumental about to happen. He feels like something is about to change, tectonic plates shifting and moving, never to be the same again. Steve feels it in the air, in his gut, just dancing out of reach.

“Okay,” Steve says, taking a deep breath. He stands up, moving closer to Bruce. A body can’t just disappear. His whole team will be under heavy scrutiny, to say the least, if this isn’t resolved. The best thing to do now is to keep calm and strategize. “You tell me everything about today and when you last saw the body.”


	4. The Stakeout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shiny, shiny art by [angstassart](https://angstassart.tumblr.com)!

“I am interested in keeping the city a safe place, Captain Rogers.” Alexander Pierce says, face solemn. “That’s why we only pick the best and brightest to serve our city.” 

Steve nods, standing straight in front of Pierce’s desk. “We’re doing our best.” 

Pierce’s office is in one of those high-rise buildings that overlook the city, towering like a giant over elves. The full-length windows are outfitted with the latest technology that lets it darken on command. It’s lavish and extravagant, befitting a man of his station. Pierce is a career politician, with close ties to the New York City police. Over the years, Pierce has hosted considerable fundraisers and given donations to police departments across New York. 

Steve had received the summons to meet Pierce while he was on his way home, via an urgent phone call from Pierce’s assistant. It’s only a couple of hours after Bruce had told him about the missing body.

“Yes. That is very… fortunate. I understand your team has lost a body,” Pierce says. “Losing evidence on an ongoing case doesn’t bode well for you, Captain.”

“I assure you, our team will get to the bottom of this, sir.”

Pierce lets off a small sound of acquiesce. “Indeed. We don’t want word of this going out to the media. You already know how bad the image of the police is.”

Steve rankles at the implication. That Bruce would willingly let the incident happen, that his team was careless, that his precinct didn’t work their assess off everyday to fight the stereotype of careless and violent law enforcers. 

“Tell me, Captain,” Pierce asks, leaning forward on his desk, hands clasped. “What were you doing with the surveillance tapes?”

“We were watching them to see any sign of forced entry or exit, sir.” Steve says, back ramrod straight. He and Bruce had watched the tapes not long after Bruce stepped into his office. “Everything was done by the book, sir.”

“Indeed. And I understand that Dr. Bruce Banner was the one who discovered the missing evidence?”

“Person,” Steve can’t help but say. “Missing corpse, sir.” 

It doesn’t sit right with him to have someone who was living and breathing just called evidence.

“I dislike hiding the truth, Captain Rogers.” Pierce says, standing up and walking around his desk. He sits at the corner instead. “We can’t very well have a police Captain who can’t control their own precinct, can we?”

Goosebumps rise on Steve’s arms, crawling up his skin. Steve has always tried to be a good person, a person who helps others. It’s why he entered the force and how he got to where he is. But Steve’s not naive. It’s more than just doing your duty. There’s a lot of politics involved—politics that Steve has no intention of joining. He’s always clung on to his work and his values, and stubbornly hoping that it would be enough.

“With all due respect, sir, our precinct has the highest rates for solving cases.” Steve says, fingers closing into a fist by his side. “Everything we do is filed and can be traced.”

“And yet, you lost a body, and no evidence remains of it. Luckily, fate is on your side—it seems you’ve gotten no leads on the identity or relatives of this victim.” Pierce says. His gaze is steel, his voice calm. “I only want what’s best, Captain Rogers. And while I dislike hiding the truth, there are bigger evils to face—and we have to make choices for the greater good. This lapse is too big. It shouldn’t have existed.”

Steve sets his jaw, ignoring the goosebumps trailing up his arms at Pierce’s hint— _luckily, there are no leads. Luckily, this could easily be swept under the rug._ He forges on, standing his ground. “Once we notify the whole team, we will be working round-the-clock-”

“Ah, yes. Your team.” Pierce nods, steepling his fingers. “Dr. Bruce Banner…from the Harlem incident five years ago. Maria Hill, the daughter of a former mayor imprisoned with plunder charges. Samuel Wilson and Riley Reyes from an experimental government unit that didn’t manage to get off the ground.” Pierce crosses his arms, the challenge spoken. “I think your team needs to take on another case. Do you get my meaning Captain?”

Steve’s knuckles turn white, his fist shaking. He doesn’t say anything, understanding the implicit threats.

Steve has a great team. It’s a team made up of people who have fought and proved that they were more than their family’s past; a team made up of people who were willing to give their lives to save others, a team of innocent people who only wanted to help, yet through no fault of their own, ended up part of one of New York’s biggest accidents in the recent years.

For them, Steve keeps his mouth shut.

“Dismissed.” Pierce says, eyes as cool as silver.

Steve strides towards the exit, keeping his temper in check. He _should_ keep his mouth shut. Doing so would compromise his values at the moment, but not fighting back would protect his team in the long run.

_But would walking away be the solution his team want? Would any of them choose to walk away?_

Steve stops, closes his eyes, and turns around and to look at Pierce in the eye.

“Sir, please leave this matter to us. I assure you that we will address it appropriately and will take all means necessary to ensure a positive outcome for all involved.”

Steve walks out of the office, careful not to slam the door behind him.

***

Stakeouts, despite many cop shows, are boring endeavors. Bucky sighs as he walks into the next neighborhood, cap pulled low over his head. He shoves a gloved hand in his jeans pocket. He rolls the shoulder of his left arm, the left limb attached to it a gift from a past client. It’s dark with light gold lines crisscrossing the metal, a conduit for his magic.

He keeps a wary eye of his surroundings. The city air is cold and stale, the lamplights burning low. He passes by a dark alley, glancing at the empty place before he freezes. Slowly, as not to arouse suspicion, he keeps walking, then doubles back after a minute. 

Sure enough, a man is standing at the empty alley, arms crossed and glaring at the wall. An outline of a gun is visible on his person. Next to him…

Bucky breathes and keeps walking, already thinking of the best way to get to the area unnoticed. He ducks into the next alley and heaves himself up on a dumpster. 

He jumps and catches on the lowest fire escape. He climbs up as stealthily as he can, ducking and flattening himself against the stone walls whenever he sees a shadow inside the building’s window.

Two, he thinks. It should be two apartments away from them. He takes a deep breath and runs the breadth of the rooftop, muttering a spell as soon as he hits the edge. The spell helps him jump to the next roof, and the next. 

He stops, winded and looks over at the alley.

Sure enough, the man is still there, now checking his watch. There’s a tattoo on his neck that boasts of his affiliation. A skull with six tentacles. 

Bucky takes a deep breath and judges the distance. He has his arm on today; he only wears it to do powerful magic, or if Clint and Nat need him to. And right now, Clint and Nat need him to. He can do this.

_Finger guns_ , he thinks. Stunner should do. As he sets up his aim, the man shifts. 

Maybe it’s the light, or the shadows. Hell, maybe the guy has a sixth sense for the supernatural, because he looks up and sees Bucky. 

Crap. 

Bucky’s barely rolled away from the rooftop before a bullet hits the edge, a hair’s breadth away from his shoulder. He can hear the man’s footsteps in the alley, trying to get a better view of the top of the building to shoot at him. 

“Come out.” He hears before another shot is fired up, nowhere near Bucky is.

Bucky considers waiting him out ‘til his bullets run out. But the guy could call for back up, or disappear.

“Come out, or everyone here dies.”

Bastards.

He reaches for his neck and briefly touches the protective amulet—a white wing-shaped pendant, his family’s crest—he wears in reassurance. He takes a deep breath. Keeping his hand in position, he walks to the edge, hoping he gets to use it. 

He prepares a spell in case he doesn’t.

As soon as he steps near the ledge the man sees him immediately, pointing a gun at him and shooting before Bucky can fire his own.

Bucky mutters the spell as quick as he can. It works, the bullet reversing and hitting the agent where he’d wanted to hit Bucky. 

The thing is, HYDRA agents aim to kill. The agent drops to the ground.

Bucky jumps to the ground away from the body.

First, he puts up a cloaking spell, left hand tracing intricate patterns in the air. It’s advanced magic that even Bucky can only hold for a few hours with the arm. Then he looks at the fruit of several nights of stakeouts.

It's half a body, standing upright. It's wearing a pair of dark wash jeans and simple black flats. The jeans are darker at the top, helping to hide the blood oozing down where the body cuts off, but it does nothing to hide her exposed muscle and organs.

He shudders. He doesn’t know what she is yet, exactly, but it’s his first time seeing one of these up close, in its true form.

Grimly, he goes through his pockets—there’s a packet of rosewood ash, a dash of mountain ash, a couple of cloves of garlic, before his hand finally wraps around a packet of salt. A lot of creatures are weak against it, and Bucky hedges his bets on it being the same for this one. He draws a circle around the foot of the body with the salt, taking care not to get any on it—he only wants to talk to her, he doesn’t want to cause her pain. 

He sits down.

Time to wait.

***

Steve strides to his car, blood running hot and cold at the implications of the conversation with Pierce. That they should stop working on the case. That they should be thankful that they haven’t gotten any leads. That the mistake shouldn’t have happened, and since it did— _it shouldn’t have existed._ He yanks the door open forcefully, going back through the conversation in his head.

He starts driving, his knuckles white around the steering wheel. There’s someone out there, looking for their missing daughter, or wife, or friend. It can’t just _not exist_.

Steve Rogers grew up poor. His ma had to juggle two jobs just to get them through. On Sundays, they would eat at a soup kitchen. While Steve’s peers in middle school took part-time jobs to supplement their allowance, Steve worked to help his ma with the bills. In high school, Steve took two shifts every day, until he graduated and went to the police academy. Steve’s ma wasn’t able to see him accept his first badge, the years of hard work finally taking their toll on her rapidly failing constitution. 

When Steve was young and angry at the world, he’d gotten into a lot of fights, all sharp elbows and scraped knuckles. Fights that would have kids running whenever the police were called over, some fights leaving him alone and battered. There’d been one such fight where the police officer who took him home to his ma—that officer had seen him as a person, and not a scrawny problematic kid. He didn’t tell Steve off for fighting; he asked questions and understood why Steve couldn’t let degrading remarks about the hookers down the street just go or let the neighborhood teens continue planning on robbing old Mrs. Lancaster in the next apartment. He talked to Steve and gave Steve hope; that maybe one day, Steve could help out in a much bigger way too. 

Now Steve is older. He’s learned that the system is not ideal. It is not perfect. But Steve thinks, if enough people do good work, if enough people aren’t blinded by money, or power, things _would_ get better. 

But, fuck, it feels like it’s getting harder everyday, that doing good is starting to become the exception and not the norm. 

He takes deep breaths, trying to calm the storm inside of him. Still, he’s so focused on his thoughts that he doesn’t notice the dark van trailing his car.

***

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Bucky says, scrambling to stand up, eyes wide with shock as he sees his first glimpse of the creature. He tries to keep his face open and not grossed out.

The alley is dark, and the HYDRA agent is still on the floor. Bucky knows it looks bad.

The woman looks down at the salt circle near her feet, eyebrow raised. “Just here to trap me, then?”

She’d flown in an hour later, long hair a mess in the night. She—her top half—is still in the air, flying above the bottom, refusing to connect again. Her intestines and stomach are visible and Bucky tries to concentrate on her face and not the entrails right above his head.

Bucky shrugs. In an ideal world, he can trust anyone. In an ideal world, people don’t get killed. “You might run.”

She looks over at the body of her fallen comrade.

“I just want to ask you some questions,” Bucky says, looking at her in the eye. 

She crosses her arms over her chest, narrowing her eyes at Bucky. 

“There’s been talk around the community.” Bucky says. He looks at the man on the floor, at the tattoo on his collarbone. He looks back up at her, his palms open in a gesture of peace. “Us supernaturals… we watch out for each other.”

She smirks at him then. “But you’re not really like me, are you?” She waves a hand over at him, then over at herself, half a body in the air. Her wings extend fully, dark, batlike and foreboding. Half her body is still rooted to the floor, enclosed by a salt circle. 

“Magic-wielder,” She says. Her long tongue slithers out, tasting the air and hissing at Bucky. Bucky’s eyes widen.

“You have nothing to fear in this world. You walk among humans, day and night.” She continues. 

Bucky breathes. He looks at her form—the similar wings, the tongue, the mess of hair, the crumpled face.

“What are you?” he asks. New York is a melting pot and Bucky’s grown up seeing a lot of supernatural creatures over the years, whether they stayed or were just passing through. He’s never seen this kind before. 

In fact, the only time he’d seen one was at the grocery store a few days ago. Only Bucky didn’t know they could do… _this_. 

She looks at him and smiles, diving towards the fallen body of her comrade, wings aligning behind her as she moves. Bucky takes a step back, up against the wall, a shield charm passing from his lips. 

But the creature doesn’t attack him. Instead, she lifts up a white vial, taken from the man’s pocket. She smiles. “Hail HYDRA.” 

She upends the vial into her mouth, lets out a garbled scream, then dissolves into ashes.

***

A van hits the back of Steve’s car. Steve jerks forward, his seat belt digging into his shoulder. The airbag releases and Steve opens the door and rolls out, trying to make himself as small as possible. He hears the squeal of tires on concrete, the sound of another vehicle halting to a stop in the deserted street.

Steve gets up, quickly checking if he has any injuries—just some minor cuts and bruises on his arms and elbows. Satisfied, he turns towards the scene of the accident, wondering if the van’s driver had been drinking. He’s about to walk towards the van when the driver’s side door of the van opens and the driver walks out with a gun in his hand. 

Steve automatically reaches for his own, fingers curling around the gun on his hip. The rest of the doors of the van open, and more men with guns alight. Steve instinctively dives in front of his patrol car, keeping an eye on them—he counts around four men. He looks back quickly, looking for an escape. There’s another van blocking his exit, but it’s far enough that he can run towards an alley to the left. The second van's doors open and more men in dark outfits start piling out.

_Shit,_ Steve thinks. His heart is beating fast, adrenaline surging through his veins. He takes in the scene quickly, putting together that it _isn’t_ an accident like he initially thought.

“Don’t make it harder for yourself, Captain Rogers.” A voice calls out. Definitely not an accident. Steve feels like he’s heard the voice somewhere before, but has no time left to try and remember. Steve takes a deep breath and _runs_ towards the alley. He hears shouts and footsteps running after him, a bullet whizzing by. He makes a turn into the alley, even as another shot rings behind him and clips him on the shoulder. 

He yelps, grits his teeth against the pain, and keeps running.

He turns again; the street is empty except for a homeless man at the end of the street, asleep. He makes another turn; gunshots ringing behind him. The pain is a distraction, blood blooming on his shirt, even as he runs fueled by adrenaline. 

He turns into another alley almost blindly and crashes into another body.


	5. The Decoy

Bucky kicks the pavement in frustration. 

HYDRA is a dark fairy tale. There’s been talk about them among the supernatural community, something dark and sinister happening, something running towards them on the horizon, the reason Natasha’s barely been seen the past few weeks. 

Natasha had arrived with news of dark alleys and two-men teams in the night. Clint hasn’t been able to catch anyone in the act, and Natasha’s kind do not dally in human fights. 

“Fuck,” Bucky says, looking at the dead HYDRA agent in front of him and the ashes of the creature. The lower half of the body has become ash too, now mixed with the salt on the floor. 

He squats down and wonders what to do. He’s never disposed of a human body before. He runs through the scenarios in his head, looks at his gloved hands, reminds himself that magic traces aren’t detected by humans, that the bullet came from the man’s gun. He stands, ready to put on a cloaking spell—the one he’d put on earlier had worn off with the wait—when what feels like a brick wall crashes into him.

***

Steve chokes, hand out and already gripping for his gun when he sees who he’s crashed into.

“Captain Rogers?” James asks, one hand rubbing his chest, face wincing in pain.

Steve looks down and stares. He knows his life is on the line, that hours ago he was just having a normal day in his precinct but now he’s on the run, but in this eerie moment in the midst of chaos, all he can think is, “You have two arms?”

James gives him a look, then tinkles the fingers of his left arm at him. He’s wearing a glove. “Prosthetic, Captain. They invented it some time ago.”

Steve opens his mouth to reply, when he hears the sound of barking orders and footsteps. 

“Are—are people looking for you?” James asks, looking at him, bewildered. He takes Steve in; his bloodied shoulder, his hair in disarray, the scrapes on his elbows from rolling out of the car. His gun in hand. “Are you in a _shootout_ right now?”

Steve winces. “Long story. We need to get out of here, there’s too many of them and I don’t need you getting caught in the cross—what’s that?”

In the shadows, it looks like there’s a body prone on the floor. Steve squints. “Is that a body?”

“There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for this,” James whispers.

The footsteps draw closer. Steve breathes. He’s in an alley with a person-of-interest in one of his murder cases, who happens to have _another_ body with him while gunmen are chasing him down, right after he had refused Pierce's orders to drop the exact same case. 

There’s nobody to trust.

A wave of dread tingles down Steve's spine. He looks at James; James had an alibi for that night, but now he can't help but wonder if James is working with the people in the vans.

“Look,” James says. “I can help you right now, or I can leave you here.”

Steve almost laughs. The alley is a dead end. The only way out would be to go back, and Steve didn’t like his chances there. “How’re you gonna leave, huh?”

James blinks at him, eerily calm. “Do you want my help or not?”

“Not,” Steve says pushing James further into the alley. “For all I know you killed that man _and_ that woman in your dumpster.”

“You’re getting shot at, I don’t trust you much right now either.” James hisses back. They’re face to face, chests almost bumping into each other. “I still don’t know who or why there was a dead body in my dumpster.”

James eyes are gray, and beautiful, and burning with fire.

Steve knows he’s facing two impossible choices. He could tackle all the gunmen on his own or conspire with a _possible_ murderer. Hell, he could accept James' help, and James could be working with the gunmen anyway, hold him down, let him be a sitting duck. But there's also the chance that James wouldn't, that James is telling the truth.

He thinks fast, heart beating at an incredible rate; behind him are strangers, already set on killing or maiming him. In front of him is James, offering to help. 

He looks at James and thinks of the frayed converse sneakers of the body in the dumpster, the way James had been upset at realizing there was a body in _his_ dumpster. The way James is looking at him now. How he’s offering help, despite the circumstances.

The thing is, Steve is _good_ at people. That’s always been where he’s placed his faith. Individuals.

Not the system.

Maria always said that his trust could get him killed one day.

Steve takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, and steadies himself. There isn’t really time for him to think or second guess his choice—he only has time to act. 

“Okay,” Steve says, looking at James. Right now, James is his best option. With James, he has a shot at survival. “What do we have to do?”

***

Bucky sits on the pavement, huddled under a cloaking spell.

The body of the HYDRA agent on the floor now looks exactly like Captain Steve Rogers, thanks to a lock of Steve’s hair hidden under his tongue and a quick glamour spell. The body is also under a cloaking spell, hidden from view.

Now the hard work begins. Bucky’s an old hand at cloaking and glamour spells are; he’s had tons of practice and they’ll hold for a few hours. Illusion is harder; they need his utmost concentration, especially for something like this. It’s a spell are much more advanced than the glamour, and needs more of his power.

Steve’s ducked out to the alley, drawing fire and rushed footsteps. Bucky creates an illusion—a projection of Steve, standing still as soon as the real Steve runs back inside the alley. Steve sits next to him, exactly at the spot Bucky instructed him to go to, covered by the cloaking spell. Gunshots still ring in his ears.

Huddled next to Bucky, Steve stares wide eyed at the scene in front of him. He’s breathing hard, one hand wrapped around his injured shoulder.

Bucky tries not to be distracted by the heat along the length of his side and the muscular arm against his shoulder, and concentrates on maintaining the illusion of Steve Rogers standing in the alley, right where the corpse of the glamoured HYDRA agent—still glamoured as Steve Rogers—lies under a cloaking spell.

Bucky’s left arm glows under his jacket. 

There are so many Steve Rogers to keep track of. This would be _so_ much easier if Bucky was a necromancer. 

A dark haired man steps into view not two seconds after Steve rushes in, stubble and age lines on his face. 

Steve’s projection faces him, jaw set like the day Bucky first saw him, blocking the way behind Barnes Antiques’. 

“Rumlow,” Steve grumbles next to Bucky. The illusion mouths the same words. 

Bucky focuses on keeping the spell up, on not making a sound. Steve’s projection raises his gun, on a standstill with Rumlow’s own. For a split second, Bucky wonders if he has to make Steve shoot, a phantom bullet that will get nowhere—but the rest of Rumlow’s team arrive as expected, footsteps resounding against the pavement. They surround Rumlow, all guns aimed at Steve.

“Put down the gun, Cap.” Rumlow says.

Steve budges next to Bucky, moving as if he’ll say _No way in hell._ Bucky makes Steve’s projection slowly raise his hands. He bends at the knees, moving to place the gun on the floor, when he suddenly raises the gun back up to Rumlow, aiming for his—

Two shots ring in the air, one from Rumlow and another from a quick thinking teammate.

Steve’s projection falls, positioned exactly the way the corpse on the floor is. Bucky ends the illusion spell while simultaneously lifting the cloaking spell on the agent’s body. The agent is still glamoured to look like Steve Rogers.

“Sorry, Cap,” Rumlow says, looking over the body with a gun in his hand. Wide-eyed, Bucky realizes what Rumlow’s about to do, and casts a quick illusion. Rumlow clicks the gun, shooting at the body lying on the floor. Bucky makes the illusion twitch, and Rumlow watches until it stops twitching. “It’s nothing personal.”

Bucky registers, as if from someplace far away, that Steve’s frozen next to him.

Bucky wants to offer him some semblance of comfort, but he can’t, not at the risk of exposing their cover. He holds on to the threads of his magic; his left arm glowing and warm. He’s exhausted, the spells taking a toll on him, yet he still needs to be ready to act, in case he needs to shoot another spell again. 

Rumlow walks over to the corpse, pulls out his phone and takes a photo.

“Hail HYDRA,” Rumlow says, smug with satisfaction. 

Bucky’s eyes widen in surprise and his concentration almost slips. Thankfully, Rumlow’s team starts talking about catching breakfast at Denny’s, like murdering a police captain is part of their daily routine; a couple of them are tasked with arrangements for a cement drum disposal at the River as the corpse is dragged and lifted away.

***

James drops his outstretched arm and collapses against the wall. He looks at Steve from under his eyes, feeling exhaustion deep in his bones. “Why is HYDRA after you?”

Steve touches his chest, where Brock shot the corpse glamoured with his face. He rubs the area absentmindedly, mind replaying the scene over abd over. He can hear himself asking, as if from far away, “What’s HYDRA? And you still need to explain why you had another dead body with you.”

“You can’t exactly take me to prison for it, Captain Rogers,” James says. “After all, they think you’re dead now.”

James' response grounds him, pulls him back from out of his head. Steve drops his hand from his chest, _he's still alive, alive._ He takes a slow, deep breath and exhales through nose. James is right. 

“Don’t worry, whatever you did, we’ll fix it,” James says, closing his eyes. “Was the best escape option I could think of for you at the moment, I’m sorry.”

“They would’ve killed me anyway,” Steve says. He knows it’s true. There’s no other reason to be chased down like that in the middle of the night. Especially not after he'd basically told Pierce to fuck himself. At the very least, _now_ he's sure that James and Pierce aren't connected.

“Are you sleeping?” Steve asks incredulously. 

“Tired. Too much convoluted thinking and magic for one day,” James says, words already slurring.

“James, we have to move,” Steve says, urging him to stand. He winces when he jars his shoulder, the adrenaline finally dying down for him to feel the pain of his injury. He needs to get his shoulder looked at. “It isn’t safe.”

James fumbles for something in his pocket, pulls out his cellphone. Steve watches, brow creasing with a frown as James fires off their location to whoever he’s talking to on the other end. 

Steve huffs an irritated breath, looking around the alley. The invisibility… or cloaking… whatever… spell did hold earlier, Brock not seeing them at all, even as they were barely five feet away from the corpse. 

Something hits Steve’s lap. He looks down to find that James has tossed his phone there.

“My friend will come to get us. Cloaking will hold for at least an hour,” James says. His eyes are closed again, head already bent at an odd angle to sleep. “Protect me with your gun for a little bit.”


	6. The Mage

“You were his alibi,” Steve says as he glances at Clint. Clint is blond, with wrinkles around his eyes from laughing too much, and a bandaid over the bridge of his nose.

James’ apartment somehow seems more spacious on the inside than it does on the outside. A leather sofa is along the back wall of the living room, a La-Z boy next to it. A full screen TV is mounted on the wall across. The living room is separated from the kitchen only by an island, with a red bowl of ripe bananas in the middle. 

Steve works on cleaning the wound on his shoulder with the first aid kit balanced next to him on the couch, wincing at the pain. Thankfully, the wound isn’t deep. Still, it hurts like a bitch.

“You already said that,” Clint says, inclining his head as he takes a sip of coffee. “Earlier, when I dragged your asses out that alley.”

_It’s probably the painkiller._ Steve thinks. He grunts in acknowledgment, before gritting his teeth as he starts stitching up his wound. He finishes with some antibacterial ointment before wrapping a bandage around his shoulder.

When he looks up, Clint is watching him with a steady gaze. “You should probably rest.” 

Steve sets his jaw at the suggestion. The adrenaline rush has left, leaving him exhausted. “I’m not resting until I get answers.” 

Steve's put his trust in James in a situation where he was faced with only two options. Now in the light of non-imminent danger, the worry and wariness he was able to push aside is crawling back up. Steve had trusted his team—and look at where trusting _Brock_ got him. His hand clenches once, next to his gun. James and Clint may not want to kill him, but that didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous or innocent.

“Right,” Clint says. He finishes the cup of coffee and looks to the hallway as James appears, clad in sweatpants and a maroon henley, running a towel through his hair. Steve’s mouth dries a little at the sight. The shirt pulls at James’ muscles, and the way he’s rubbing a towel through his hair makes his right arm flex. His hair falls in wet tendrils around his face after he lets up, and—Steve forces himself to focus. He’s tired, and he needs all he can to keep his guard up. 

James and Clint seem to exchange a conversation with their eyes and eyebrows. After a few seconds, James turns to Steve. “I guess we ought to talk,” James isn’t wearing his prosthetic, the left sleeve of his shirt knotted near his shoulder. 

“The sun will rise soon,” Clint says. He stands up, putting the empty coffee pot on the kitchen island. “I need to go.”

And with those words, the reality crashes in on Steve like a freight train, like he’s finally, finally absorbing it _now_. There’s no place that Steve can _go_ to, not right now. He’s on the run and he’d accepted help from a possible murderer, _Christ_. He runs a hand over his face in frustration. 

“I’ll ask around, text me an accurate description,” Clint is saying as he stands by the door, looking at James. He lifts a hand up in a wave. “See you, Captain Rogers.”

“So,” James says, putting his hand on his hip once the door shuts with a click. “Why is HYDRA after you?”

Steve frowns. He’s wrong-footed, off-kilter. “I need answers too.”

They stare at each other, the space between them thrumming to life. Steve feels something stir deep in his gut. He wants to shout, he wants to hit something, he wants to push James, crowd him back against the wall and—

Steve closes his eyes, takes a calming breath, heart beating fast against his ribcage. The back of his eyelids burn with exhaustion.

“I told you. I don’t know who HYDRA is.”

“They kind of shot you in the alley there, pal,” James says, sarcasm strong in his voice. Steve hears a plop, a body settling on the La-Z boy across from him. 

He opens his eyes and looks at James. The shame starts a low fire in his gut, Brock’s betrayal still raw. He swallows. “The man who shot me is… part of my core team. At work. Some of the others there could be officers too, but I'm not entirely sure.”

“Huh,” James says, his head reeling back. He licks his lips. “They’re in the mundane police.” A shadow of worry overcomes his features before it’s masked by a frown. “That’s… not good.”

“Could you please explain what HYDRA is?” Steve asks, gathering his patience. 

James meets his gaze, gray eyes cool. “I promise, I will. And I’m sorry about your teammate. But please tell me about why they’re running after you.”

Steve snaps his mouth with a click. He already said _please_. 

James seems to sense his mood, his hesitation, his anger. James leans forward on his seat, resting his elbow on his knee.

“I’m not going to say I saved your life,” James says. He motions to his left side, where the prosthetic was. “You know what I can do. You may be dead for HYDRA, but if you come out and tell people what I am? You’d have signed my death warrant—and possibly hundreds of others’ as well.”

“So please,” James finishes. His body language is open, and his eyes are clear. Honest. “I promise, I’ll answer anything you ask to the best of my ability.”

Steve shakes his head. _Magic._ If he told anyone, they’d say he was crazy. No one would believe him. He can’t even believe it himself, despite seeing everything that happened. 

Steve stares at James for a beat. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth; his mind niggling with doubt about James innocence. But so far, James has been helpful. And Steve is at the end of his rope, and this is his biggest lead.  
“Is there something like a truth spell?” Steve asks, curious. He might as fucking well ask. He has nothing more to lose.

James freezes for a second, his eyes wide in surprise, before he nods. “Yes.”

“Let’s do that,” Steve says. At the very least, he’s seen that James spells _work_. “That way, we both get the answers we want.”

“Okay,” James says. He’s looking at Steve with his head tilted to the side, but there’s an understanding look on his face, the lines at the corners of his eyes pronounced as he smiles. “Both parties have to consent. The spell won’t force you to say anything you don’t want, but it won’t let you tell a lie. You’ll feel a tug if someone’s trying to lie. And,”

Steve looks up at James’ eyes, eyebrow raised in question.

“And we’ll have to have physical contact for it to work,” James finishes. 

Steve blinks.

“Holding a hand will work,” James says. He wipes his hand on his sweatpants, swallowing. “Do you consent to the truth spell?”

Steve nods. He holds out his hand. “I consent.” 

James rests his arm over the armrest of the La-Z boy and meets his hand, fingers sliding over Steve’s palm and closing. His grip is strong and cool to the touch from his earlier shower. “I consent to tell the truth.”

With those words, extremely thin golden threads of light appear from James’ hand and wrap around their hands, emanating a soft glow. Steve watches, mesmerized at the threads before James squeezes his hand to catch his attention.

James nods at Steve. “Do you want to test it?”

Steve swallows and nods. He goes for something simple and easy, something he knows the answer to from James’ file. “What’s your name?”

“My name is—” James starts. Steve feels a pull just beneath his ribcage, like his heart is being tugged at. It doesn’t _hurt_ , but it feels strange just the same. 

James shakes his head, takes a deep breath. “I’m James Buchanan Barnes. My dad was a history professor.” 

Steve nods. He asks about James birthday, address, and other information he remembers, feeling the difference between when James is trying to lie and when he answers directly—the truth feels light and free and easy, while any attempts to lie gives that pull underneath his ribs. Finally, James asks him, “What’s your name?”

Steve tries to say a fake name, but the words won’t go out of his lips. He bites his bottom lip and swallows; he thinks of something true, but something he doesn’t want to share, to test the limits of the spell. “My ma named me after—” 

Steve pauses, heart in his throat, but there’s nothing forcing him to continue. He relaxes. “My name is Steven Grant Rogers.”

“Satisfied?” James asks, looking at him with his dark gray eyes.

“Yeah.” 

James nods. “Let’s do this, then. Why do you think those guys were after you?”

Steve opens his mouth and speaks. There is no pull to tell everything, yet he still tells James everything—from the day Sam found the body in James dumpster, to the body disappearing in the precinct, to his meeting with Pierce, until the events of a few hours ago. He thinks it's partly for himself too; he needs to process everything that's happened, and he needs it laid out. When he’s finished talking, his voice is raspy and the sun has risen outside.

***

“I’m going to let go,” Bucky says, giving Steve’s hand a squeeze. Steve’s hand is warm, his grip sure and strong; his face was etched in seriousness, that it made it hard for Bucky to concentrate. “Give me a second.”

Steve lets him go and the light between their hands fades away. Bucky heads to the kitchen, rotating his right shoulder and stretching the joints in his elbow, working out the kinks from staying in one position for such a long time. He grabs a glass of water from the kitchen then sets it down on the coffee table in front of Steve. 

“You found HALF a body?” Bucky confirms, as he sits back down on the La-Z boy next to his couch. He’s been quiet throughout Steve’s explanation, absorbing the story. Now, everything is starting to make just a little more sense. Goosebumps trail up his arms at the coincidence; of him seeing a HYDRA team that evening, of Steve finding a body, of Steve running into him when he did.

Steve’s face twitches. Bucky suspects that Steve didn’t tell him this vital piece of information during his initial interview, probably in the hopes that he would volunteer information himself and show his hand as a suspect. Steve sighs, as if word was being dragged out of him. “Yes.”

“There was half of a body in my dumpster. That you took to the police. And this body disappeared.” Bucky recounts, a hunch starting to form. 

“Yes.”

“How?”

Steve rolls his eyes, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Bucky’s eyes are drawn to his shoulders, watching the muscles tighten at the gesture. He can still feel the warmth of Steve’s palm in his hand.

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be here,” Steve says. He pauses, eyes shifting, as if thinking about other scenarios before looking at Bucky with a frown between his brow. “At least, I hope not.”

“That’s fair. Where was the body kept?” Bucky asks. He needs to focus, keep track of this information, and not get distracted by how _good_ Steve Rogers looks, trust issues aside. 

“In the morgue. We only have cameras in the hallway leading up to the rooms. There was something wrong with the footage, like it’s been tampered with,” Steve repeats. He rubs his hand across his face, tiredness etched on his features. Bucky remembers Steve’s been running for who knows how long before they bumped into each other. “But only for a couple of minutes. There couldn’t have been enough time to remove a body.”

“Any chance you could tell me what the body was wearing?” Bucky asks, hesitant. Oh god.

“Skirt. Sneakers,” Steve looks at the ceiling, reciting from memory. “Red skirt, White Converse.”

Bucky sags. He closes his eyes, hand closing to a fist. He remembers the day at the grocery store, the woman who was obviously afraid and overly cautious as she sought him out. “Fuck.”

He hears Steve shift in his seat. When he opens his eyes, Steve is leaning towards him, intensity in his blue eyes. "I think I want my turn to ask you questions now." 

In his kitchen, the bananas he brought a couple of days ago rest inside a red bowl. Two days ago, he hadn’t seen tangible proof of HYDRA. Two days ago, he wasn’t harboring a police captain on the run, hadn’t made it look like the police captain is dead to HYDRA.

Funny how that was. 

Bucky takes a deep breath then holds out his hand across the seat. “Okay.”

Steve looks down at his hand, then reaches across the armrest to hold his. Bucky starts the spell, and once they both voice their consent, the thin gold threads wrap around their hands again, secure.

Steve looks like he wants to get right down to the chase, but he stops. He asks Bucky a few basic questions instead, instructing Bucky to lie for some of them. Bucky blinks at him, fascinated at the amount of wariness and vigilance, but then, he supposes, if he'd been in Steve Rogers shoes, he'd probably act be the same. So Bucky concedes, feeling the uncomfortable pull at his heart whenever he tries to lie, knowing that Steve feels it too. 

Finally, Steve starts. “Did you know her?” 

Bucky bites his lip. “I met her once. She wanted my help.”

“What kind of help?” Steve asks, eyes laser focused on him.

“Magic, Steve.” Bucky looks at Steve, then away. “I sell charms. Protection charms. Glamour charms. Amulets. Things like that.”

“Protection charms?”

Bucky nods, rubbing tired eyes with his shoulder, jostling their hands. “I don’t think that’s what she came to me for though. She could’ve just gone to my shop, not accosted me in a grocery store.”

Steve looks at him, eyes narrowed, as if he’s got a _lot_ of questions to ask, but settles for the most urgent one. “Protection charms. Who did she need them for?” Steve asks. “If she really did come to you for help, she must’ve had someone after her.”

Bucky licks his lips. He looks away. 

“You’re a good guy, I think. Once you find out about this… there’s no going back,” Bucky says. 

“I’m not a child. I’ve seen the worst humans can do,” Steve says, jaw clenched. “And I’ve seen you do your… magic.” 

The way he says it says he’s still not used to it, still adapting, even if he was just part of a truth spell. In spite of the serious situation, Bucky feels a small grin tug at his lips. Learning that magic is real opens up a new realm of possibility, but what Bucky will tell him next opens up a completely different world. 

The supernatural community is small and hidden, everyone doing their best to blend in the mundane world after centuries of war. They’re content to stay hidden, creatures of stories and myth. 

Sometimes, they slip. No one is perfect, after all.

But what Bucky did today is more than slip. He willingly _showed_ a mundane, a human—one that he was not related to, one he had no affiliation with, his powers.

It was a life or death situation. Bucky ignores the fact that he could have just walked away, could have kept only himself hidden. He didn’t have to help Captain Steve Rogers. Steve Rogers with his sky blue eyes and blond hair and his _shoulders_ , and concern for Bucky being in the wrong place at the wrong time, in the middle of the cross-fire Steve brought with him. 

But Bucky did, and he doesn't regret helping him. And Bucky knows he has to tell him more; that Steve deserves to know who's running after him. 

"The body you found in my dumpster—she was a supernatural creature, Steve." Bucky says. He watches Steve, gauging his reaction. “You won’t find either half of the body anymore. That guy on your team—Rumlow—if he's HYDRA, then he'd probably know how to dispose of one. Some supernatural bodies leave no corpses, only ash.”

***

Steve stares at James. He wonders if he's tonight has just been a long, _long_ dream. He wants to wake up now.

"I'm just supposed to believe this?" Steve asks, but he can feel the lightness, the easiness, the markers of truth given by the spell. The truth spell is still glowing around them, and the words James had spoken didn't tug at Steve like a lie would have.

James shrugs, lifting their hands as if to show Steve the spell is still intact. 

Steve opens his mouth to protest, even as he thinks through what he knows of the supernatural. Werewolves turn into wolves at the full moon, vampires need human blood to live, faeries need names. He remembers the cold damp of early morning the day they found the body, the sun coming out much later after he interviewed James, with the body safely in the morgue. How Bruce always keeps his blinds closed in his lab, working with the fluorescent lights instead.

“Supposing that’s true,” Steve says, slowly. “Is this the moment you tell me about HYDRA?”

James looks sheepish, looking at him from lowered lids. “I don’t know much.”

Steve glares. Unconsciously, his hand grips James tighter. 

“All I know is that there’s been talk of them in the community. That some of the supernaturals are afraid of them,” James pauses, frowning. “But nobody knows who they are or what they really do. It took a friend of mine a year undercover to find out that they really exist.”

James looks away, as if thinking about how much to tell Steve. He sets his shoulders as if coming to a decision, before looking at Steve again. Steve listens as James tells him about what he was doing in the alley, what he saw, and what he did. The more Steve hears, the more out-of-depth he feels. Steve lost half-a-body in his precinct. James claims to have seen the same in the alley. 

Steve listens, his stomach sinking. It's too surreal. 

He looks down at the threads of gold circling his wrist and criss-crossing over his and James’ hands. He could ask James right now if James killed the body he found at his dumpster. James wouldn’t be able to lie to him. But the thought leaves a bad taste in his mouth as soon as it comes. Doing so would break James’ trust, and right now, they were both here, connected by threads of gold, vulnerable.

James already admitted to killing the man in the alley out of self-defense, explaining how his spell had worked. Steve knows all too well how close he himself came to that today. James has no real reason to hide if he also did the same thing to the body found in his dumpster. 

Dimly, he realizes that James is still talking. 

“Probably good that we ran into each other. Now we know for sure… humans are involved,” James says, tapering off. 

“What does that mean?” Steve asks. 

The sun shines outside James’ living window, as if it’s any ordinary day. 

“Your guess is as good as mine. But historically… nothing good.” James gives a rueful smile. “There’s a reason we’re in hiding, Steve. Humans haven’t treated us well throughout the years.” 

Steve opens his mouth and clicks it shut. He thinks of the fairy tales and legends, mythologies and stories—burning witches, killing werewolves, stakes through the heart. Stories that he’s watched and read and knew about since childhood. 

Stories that are true.

Unconsciously, he squeezes James hand to offer a semblance of comfort. The sun shines from the window, falling on James’ face for a second. Steve sees that James cheeks are slightly flushed. 

“Anyway,” James says, slowly releasing his grip from between Steve’s hand. “We should get some rest. You’re welcome to the guest room, second door to the left.”

The spell dissipates again as they let go. Steve watches as James stands up, shifting through everything he’s learned. The past sixteen hours has given him a lot of information—yet at the same time, he hasn’t learned much. He’s learned that the world is far bigger than he initially knew, but he doesn’t have answers about his case or why HYDRA is after him. 

Gunmen had chased him _right_ after he left Pierce’s office. Pierce, who all but told him to drop a case. It seemed far too much of a coincidence that they would attack right after he met and refused to follow Pierce. Could Pierce be with HYDRA, too? 

James looks at him and catches his eye. He lifts an eyebrow, questioning, his gaze steady. 

Steve thinks and turns the idea over in his head, his stomach clenching in knots. The idea that someone as powerful as Pierce, being part of an organization like this—well, it isn’t unheard of or even shocking but—it’s not something Steve can let happen, not if he knows, not if he can do anything to stop it. 

Brock shot him today. The circle of people Steve trusts has gotten a lot smaller. But there were still people he knew he could count on, individuals he’s trusted over the years, way before Brock ever came into the precinct. Steve sets his jaw and unconsciously juts his chin up. 

Finally, he says, “I’m telling my team I’m alive.”

“You sure you can trust them?” James asks, after a beat. The look on his face is incredulous and Steve—Steve’s loyal to the team that he’s served with for years; his first reaction is to bristle in anger, the implication that his team can’t be—but James continues, looking at him, as if able to read his mind.

“You told me earlier that guy was part of your team. 'Nothing personal, Cap'?” James quotes, inclining his head to the side. 

Steve sighs, tense shoulders relaxing by a margin. He looks down at his hands, open palms on his lap. “If things are happening inside the system… then other people need to know. There’s still good people in there.”

When James says nothing, just looking at him like he’s trying to read Steve, Steve hardens his resolve. He knows it’s the right thing to do.

“I trust them,” Steve says. “I just need to tell them I’m alive and to watch their backs. I won’t tell them anything unnecessary.”

James is quiet. Behind him, Steve hears a door open. “I hope your trust doesn’t lead you to more danger,” James says, before he shuts the door closed with a click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the first 6 chapters! I'll be uploading the rest of the chapters later. Meanwhile, here’s [angstassart](https://angstassart.tumblr.com/tagged/mayatwb)'s cropped version of shirtless dorito!Steve:  
>   
> 


	7. The Team

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art in this chapter is illustrated by [angstassart](https://angstassart.tumblr.com/)! Find more of their art for this fic [here](https://angstassart.tumblr.com/tagged/mayatwb).

The night in S.H.I.E.L.D. is in full swing, EDM music flowing through the speakers. Bucky sidesteps a couple on the dance floor, Steve close at his heels. Steve’s body is a tense line, steps measured, eyes flickering every few seconds. The bar is at usual capacity, full of creatures in glamour and in their natural forms. 

(Or Steve could be standing like that because Bucky’s shirt barely fits over his ridiculous shoulders. It’s not like he could wear his bloody shirt in a room full of supernaturals, and they hadn’t had time to shove Steve’s clothes in Bucky’s washing machine, since they slept the whole afternoon. Bucky slept like the dead, recovering from the magic drain. Steve—well, Steve looked like he slept, at the very least.)

Sam is looking around, surveying the area with careful curiosity. Bucky’s used his blood to let the two mundanes in, a testament that they can be trusted to enter tonight. They’ll keep needing the blood of supernatural to enter the club, willingly given. 

Bucky doesn’t know what to make of Sam yet, except that he and Steve seem to be close. Sam seems wary of him, a pointed, “ _I was the one that found the body in your dumpster._ ” serving as his opening greeting. 

Body in dumpster aside, they definitely re-started on the wrong foot. Bucky had all but pulled Steve aside when he realized Steve had invited someone else when Clint had told them he’d found some help. That someone else was Sam, standing at a street corner two streets away from S.H.I.E.L.D., dressed in a black tee and jeans. 

(“Whatever this is, someone from my team needs to know,” Steve had said, head inclined towards Bucky, keeping his voice low. 

“You could’ve asked me first,” Bucky hissed. “ _I_ don’t know if we can trust him.”

“I trusted _you_ ,” Steve said, as if that’s an argument. 

“You had no choice.” 

“I did. I could have chosen not to trust you at that moment and… who knows what could have happened.” Steve shrugged. “If you look at our situation on paper—finding that body in your dumpster, finding you at another murder scene—the odds were against you, James. Common sense would’ve said not to trust you. But I did.”

And that was the kicker, wasn’t it?

Bucky had wondered if he should’ve gone in depth, spelled out the relationship between the mundane the supernatural. But Steve’s a smart guy. All the stories over the years don’t paint the supernatural in a favorable light. 

“Steve,” Bucky had said, breathing through his nose, his shoulders dropping at the exhale. He’d shaken his head. “It’s not just _me_ at stake here.”

“I know. I'm sorry. I shoulda asked you ahead of time,” Steve looked away, towards Sam, who was obviously waiting for them. He looked back at Bucky, face set in an expression Bucky was learning to recognize. “I need you to trust me now.”

Bucky laughed. He covered his eyes with his hand, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.” )

Bucky leads them to the bar. He leans against the dark counter to wait for Sharon, fingers drumming on the countertop. Steve settles next to him, tall and awkward next to an unglamoured satyr chugging a mugful of beer. Sam’s just sat on a stool when Sharon appears in front of them. 

“What can I get you boys?” Sharon asks. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and there’s a small stain on the shoulder of her white t-shirt. 

“Whiskey, on the rocks,” Sam says, looking over at the drinks list in front of him. He keeps his eyes on the menu, probably to not stare at the satyr sitting between him and Steve. 

“Two beers,” Bucky says, ordering one for Steve after Steve shrugs, his chest rippling Bucky’s shirt. _Christ._ “And some fondue.”

Sam makes a strange sound, coughing. “That’s a strange code word, man,” He mutters under his breath. 

Bucky shrugs, in an _I don’t make the rules_ kind of way. He braces more of his weight against the counter, looking past Steve and the satyr, towards Sam. “I don’t make the rules.”

A glass of whisky is on the bar in front Sam before he can respond. “So, Clint told me about it,” Sharon says as she rustles some beer out from behind the counter. “Half a body huh?”

Bucky gives her a grim smile. “Yeah. Anyone pass by?”

Sharon shakes her head no. Any new supernatural creature in town passes by S.H.I.E.L.D. It’s a homing beacon, a safe place. 

“Do you think we could take a look at your family’s grimoire?”

Most supernatural creatures have some form of documentation online. There are Wikipedia entries, websites, and forums. There are websites to get accurate information on, if you could parse through the embellishments and decode the realities from the symbolisms. 

The Carter Grimoire, though, was a lot more accurate than easily editable information on the World Wide Web. It was made from decades of travels and documentation and collaboration of various people from their world. Even the Barnes line, Bucky’s own ancestors contributed to the creation of the book. 

Sharon gives a nod, inclining her head towards Bucky’s booth. “Why don’t you boys sit down and I’ll join you?”

Bucky, Steve, and Sam settle around Bucky’s usual booth. Sam sits across from Bucky, eyes narrowed in distrust. Bucky glares back. Steve’s shoulders are in a tense line again, seated next to Sam. With Bucky’s help, Steve starts telling Sam more about the events of last night, up to how he ran into Bucky with a dead body in an alley and how they managed to escape the STRIKE team. 

The music hits an intense beat, lights flickering around the bar. 

“Mind if I take a seat?” A voice asks, smooth over the sound of a chair being dragged from the next table to stop at the head of their booth’s table. A red-haired woman sits down gracefully.

Bucky smiles. “Nat!” Across from him, Sam and Steve both sit straighter, alert at the intrusion.

Clint plops down next to Bucky in the booth, lifting his palm up in greeting. “Looking better, Captain Rogers. Hey, Bucky. Hiya, stranger.”

Sam gives a suspicious nod in Clint’s direction. Sharon approaches their table with a drink for Nat and Clint in a tray on one hand, book in the other. Steve stands up quickly, offering her his seat. She settles into the booth with a sweet smile, while Steve grabs another chair to settle in. Sharon clasps her hands on the table, leaning forward to look at Clint and Bucky. 

“I found one that matches the creature you saw in the grimoire,” Sharon says, placing the book in front of her and opening the pages. “Bucky, if you want privacy—”

“Yeah, okay,” Bucky says, lifting his right arm and concentrating on summoning the magic from inside him, as he says the words for a spell that would keep their conversation private. It’s not advanced magic, not enough that he’d need his left arm to channel power through.

“Sweet,” Clint says as the rush of magic tingles down his forearms. Steve rubs the side of his neck once, the only sign that he felt anything. 

“They’re from Asian mythology,” Sharon explains as she opens to the relevant page. Bucky’s always liked that about her—she doesn’t beat around the bush. They glance at the grimoire, heavy and aged, the magic surrounding it keeping it intact. Bucky’s eyes scan over the text of the page. “Particularly, from the Philippines. They’re called a _manananggal_. It’s a creature that can split itself in half. While whole, they have a beautiful human form that can walk around in sunlight. At night, the top half detaches itself from the bottom half, leaving the bottom half in a secluded location. When the _manananggal_ hunts, the bottom half is vulnerable. When the lower half is exposed to sunlight, the _manananggal_ dies.”

Sam shifts in his seat, looking queasy. He looks down at his drink, away from the graphic photo of the _manananggal_ in the book. In the photo, the _manananggal_ is floating on top of a bed, wings stretched out on either side of her. Her hair is long and unkempt, a mix of black and gray. Her long tongue is stretched, down and inside the mouth of a woman lying prone on a bed, blood around her mouth.

Steve slowly crosses his arms over his chest, a small frown on his brow as he digests the information. 

Sharon continues, looking around the table. “It’s known to eat fetus hearts and drink blood.”

Steve’s face pales, and over Sharon’s head, he exchanges a look with Sam, who’s eyes have widened in surprise. 

_Interesting,_ Bucky thinks, and files it away to ask Steve about later. 

The music in the club shifts to a faster track, beats pulsing. “The _manananggal_ don’t usually frequent cities, based on what’s in the grimoire. But…”

“But it’s 2018, and times change, and adaptation happens," Bucky finishes, looking meaningfully at Sharon, the result of one such adaptation. 

“Exactly," Sharon says, a small smile at the corner of her lips. 

Steve starts rubbing his temples, a small crease on his brow. “James?”

“Yeah?”

“What the fuck did I get into?” Steve asks.

***

Steve sorts through all the new information in his head. It’s a lot to take in; he still has goosebumps on his arms and he keeps having to stop himself from staring at everything—everyone around the club. Before tonight, he hadn’t even seen one creature. And yet here he was, surrounded by them—doing ordinary, everyday things like drinking, eating, and dancing. He’s pretty sure that’s a fairy by the DJ booth, with neon pink hair and a hoop earring, wings glittering in the light.

If he still had any doubts about James’ story—at least, the ones about the supernatural, it’s laid to rest. And hearing about the _manananggal_ now—the way it acts and its victims—reminds him of what Riley said back in the morgue, and how Brock was so quick to shut it down. Putting all these information together, it seems like the _manananggal_ is what killed their latest victim. 

And that they might have had the body of one in their precinct, before it disappeared.

This also means James could really be innocent and had the awful misfortune of being in the wrong place (or owning the wrong place) at the wrong time. And James—well, James is flipping through the grimoire, eyes skimming the text. Steve finds himself looking at the pages as well, glancing at the photos and names of creatures he didn’t even know about, much less thought of existing in real life.

Sharon stands up and makes her way out of the booth, hair escaping her ponytail and falling across her face as she looks at the floor, careful in her heels. She turns and looks at James, her hands out for the grimoire. “That’s all I have for you.”

“It’s a lot of help,” Clint says as the book passes hands. 

“Thank you," James adds.

Once Steve’s settled back in the booth, Sam starts talking. 

“So,” Sam says. “Supernatural creatures exist. Rumlow is part of this… thing with those creatures? And Steve, what is HYDRA?”

Steve looks at James then, as if to say, _Well he hasn’t given me a reasonable explanation either._

It’s the woman introduced as Natasha who speaks up.

“They’re bad news,” Natasha says. Her legs are crossed, one hand holding a glass of margarita. “Everything about them looks above board. We haven’t been able to prove anything.”

“Who is… we?” Sam asks. His hand is loose around his glass of whiskey. His fingers slowly rotate the glass on top of the table. 

Natasha blinks at him. There’s something about her that makes the hair on Steve’s arms rise a little, something cold and frightening. 

“Ah, I see, you’ve got a vigilante team going here," Sam says, indicating James, Natasha, and Clint. 

“Aren’t you that right now?” Nat asks, sweetly. She takes a sip of her margarita.

“Touche,” Sam says, lifting his glass to her in acknowledgment. 

“From what we’ve gathered,” Clint starts, “There’s been some talk underground. We’ve got our bad guys, like you do. But talk is that they’re all connected—it’s all HYDRA. But we haven’t proven or seen anything that proves that they’re real or they exist—until last night.”

Steve shakes his head. “I don’t understand,” he says. “Why not bring this to the authorities?”

“Humans have always killed us," Natasha says, looking at Steve. Her posture radiates distrust. Steve glances at her; she looks like the type who doesn’t trust anyone, whether they’re authority figures, humans, or supernaturals. 

He looks at Clint and James, as if to prove a point. “But they’re human.” 

As soon as he says it, a small flicker of doubt comes in. They _are_ human, right?

Clint shakes his head. “Raised by werecreatures.”

Sam stares.

“In a circus,” Clint supplies helpfully, lowering his hand back to wrap around the neck of his beer bottle. Sam opens his mouth, then shuts it. Steve thinks it’s a wise decision. 

“I’m a mage,” James says. “I can do magic. We’re not… entirely human.”

“Oh,” Steve says. He clears his throat. “Okay. What do we do next?”

“Thing is,” Clint says, looking at Natasha briefly, before turning back to Steve. “We’ve heard whispers of HYDRA. Only within our walls. We didn’t think humans would be involved, since the community’s been laying low for decades.”

“But now we know your _friend_ ,” Natasha says. “Is definitely involved. And who knows who else in the mundane police.”

Steve clenches his jaw. Rumlow was part of his team, but he didn’t consider Brock a friend. But he knows from his experience dealing with people over the years that Natasha is goading him, so he says nothing.

“And,” Natasha continues, cool eyes assessing Steve and Sam. “You know more than you’re letting on.” 

Steve freezes, his hand still around the beer warming in his hand. Sam still looks a little wary, but he nods at Steve. Steve feels an incredible rush of gratitude towards his friend, willing to follow him as they embark on this uncertain path.

_Nothing personal, Cap._ , flashes through his mind, unbidden. Sam starts talking in his stead. 

“We picked up a victim the other day. She was pregnant, and after an autopsy, we discovered that her fetus’ heart was gone," Sam says. 

“If… if that creature you said you saw… the one that Sharon talked about exists, it could have been its victim," Sam says, voice grim. “I’m going to go check on it and the reports as soon as we’re done.”

Steve groans, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes, elbows leaning on the table. “Brock interviewed the witness.” 

Any evidence they have could be compromised already, much like the half of a body they found outside Barnes’ Antiques. He has little doubt now that it was Brock who took—tampered with? got rid of?—the body as well. “We know that Brock is HYDRA. He’s probably the reason the body we found in your dumpster is missing too.”

“That could mean she was HYDRA too,” James says, biting his lip. 

“Now how’d you make that leap?” Sam asks, both eyebrows raised.

James looks at Steve. Steve shrugs; he hasn’t told Sam much about James or what James has gone through. 

“I met her, a couple of days before," James says. “She was asking for help—the night we were supposed to meet, she didn’t come. If she was HYDRA, that could mean she got caught.”

“It could be cold feet?” Clint asks, looking towards Natasha.

“Perhaps,” Natasha says, meeting his gaze, inclining her head to the right.

James shakes his head, the lights of the club accentuating his cheekbones. “She looked scared that day, Nat. Like she needed help. I think she tried to leave and didn’t make it.”

“Everyone can make decisions they regret,” Natasha muses, finger trailing around the rim of her margarita glass. Clint shifts closer to her, but doesn’t say anything.

“But why leave her in _your_ dumpster?” Sam asks, shaking his head.

Chills run up Steve spine as he realizes why—at the same time, Natasha speaks.

“Why do you think?” Natasha asks, leaning on the table, her chin resting on the back of her hand. “She went to Bucky for help. It was a warning _for_ Bucky.”

“To not get involved,” Steve says, looking at Bucky. And yet here Bucky was, involved.

Bucky shrugs. “Maybe. I just sell charms. It would’ve been enough of a warning for anyone who wanted to keep their head down.” Bucky licks his lips, fidgeting with his hands. “I didn’t see the body anyway. You got there first.”

Sam collapses in the booth, a whoosh of air coming from his lips. “Unbelievable. A man pisses on the street and this is what happens.”

“Seeing the body _probably_ wouldn’t have stopped me from getting involved," Bucky admits. He flicks a thumb at Clint. “I generally stay out of areas outside my expertise, but sometimes this guy needs help.”

Clint gives them a rueful smile. “We’ve been looking into HYDRA’s existence for a long, long time, amigos.”

***

*

“We need to find out what HYDRA’s up to,” Clint says. “Hearing of an organization with that much power underground—that it _isn’t_ a myth—is dangerous. We have to protect ourselves. So, we’ll be watching your precinct, Captain Rogers.”

“We’ll help,” Steve says. His eyes are fiercely blue, one hand curled into a fist on top of the table, shoulders straight. 

Nat tilts her head at Steve, trying to read him. 

Bucky lets the silence sit for a moment, before sighing. He looks at Sam and Steve, nodding. “If you’re going to do this with us, you’ll need amulets. You’ll be able to see everyone’s true forms while wearing them. _Even_ if they’re wearing glamour charms.” He pauses. “You might not like what you see.”

“It’s not up to us now, is it?” Steve says, while Sam says, “Amulets and glamour charms?”

Clint shrugs. “Or you can trust us. If we say shoot, you shoot.”

Steve sets his jaw. “I don’t think that will work out.”

Clint shrugs, stretching against the booth. His fingers graze Nat’s shoulders.

To Sam, Bucky says, “Amulets hold spells to protect the wearer. They’re probably not what you’re envisioning.”

Clint reaches below the neckline of his dark sleeveless shirt, tugging out a silver necklace with an arrow pendant.

Sam visibly relaxes in relief. “For a second there, I thought I’d have to wear some huge gold bling. Which is cool and all if that’s your thing, but I’m not ready to be hip-hop.”

Steve chuckles, shaking his head. That’s the first time Bucky’s seen him smile and it’s—kind of breathtaking, actually, even in the dark. The small, genuine smile makes him look ten years younger. Bucky shakes his head, focusing. _Get your head in the game, Barnes._

Bucky indicates the dance floor. “Some of us don’t need to wear glamours, and some of us choose not to wear them. But there’s still a lot who do—not everyone has a human passing form, and a lot of us don’t want attention. Especially in the world outside.” 

“Werewolves, vampires, oh joy," Sam says, eyes flicking around quickly with mild curiosity before they settle in the booth. “Wait, _do_ they look like they do in movies?”

There aren’t any werewolves around that Bucky can see, at least not ones shifted into their natural forms. 

Natasha smiles at Sam, baring her fangs. Sam barely flinches. Barely. 

“Some of them do,” Bucky says. “I mean, we’re in New York. You get everyone in New York. We’ve got a lot more than your standard vampire and werewolf.” He grins at Nat. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Natasha says, taking another sip from her blood-red margarita. 

“So, the plan,” Steve says, shifting on his side to look at Sam. His shoulder presses against the booth cushion. “Keep an eye on Brock.” 

“We’ll continue looking for leads,” Clint says. He’s always willing to work in a team, the product of being raised in a pack. “Your adventure this morning gave us new things to look into.” 

“And you,” Nat says, looking at Steve. She’s still trying to assess him, Bucky knows. “Are supposed to be dead.”

Steve frowns, as if the reality is finally hitting him. His shoulders sag. “I can’t go back to my place.”

“My place is always open, Cap," Sam says, clapping Steve’s shoulder and giving it a little shake. The action makes Steve’s upper body move in sinful ways. Bucky grabs his drink and downs it. 

“You sure about that?” Clint asks Steve, eyebrow raised.

Nat has an amused smile playing at the corner of her lips, eyes sparkling as she looks at Clint. Bucky almost grins too; Clint drinks coffee straight from the pot every morning, and is in a relationship with a vampire. He’s not the best person to talk about _good ideas_.

“Considering that HYDRA is all around you,” Nat says, shifting her gaze to Sam. “I’m inclined to agree.”

Steve frowns _harder_. 

Bucky sighs, kicking his legs out under the booth. “You can use my spare room. It’s _partly_ my fault you’re dead anyway.” He lifts his shoulders up in a shrug. No big deal. He’ll just have a really hot, blond beefcake in his house with some trust issues who _might_ run out and expose the whole supernatural community. All on top of dealing with HYDRA. 

“That’s true,” Sam says, squinting at him. “Why did you do that, anyway?”

“If he didn’t,” Steve says, voice calm. “I’d be dead or on the run, with less knowledge and ways to defend myself.”

Bucky looks at Steve, a little surprised that Steve defended _him_. Steve meets his eyes, his gaze clear and defiant. Bucky’s breath catches in his throat. Beside him, Clint shifts. 

“Good point,” Clint says, pointing at Steve. “That’s settled, then.”

“Now that Sharon’s given us a good lead, I can filter through the junk online for more information," Bucky says, wrenching his eyes away from Steve to look at Nat and Clint. 

“Sounds like a solid plan,” Nat says. 

“What’s solid in that?” Sam mutters, shaking his head. “I’m so in the dark here.”

“Good talk," Clint says, leaning over and patting Sam on the shoulder. “Less you know, easier you’ll sleep at night.”

Sam laughs. “Somehow I doubt that.”

Bucky looks back at Steve. In the beat of the music and the lights of the bar, it’s easy to pretend it’s an ordinary day and the last 36 hours hadn’t happened. “Well, let’s fuck some shit up and get you your life back.”


	8. The Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wonderful art here (CHECK OUT STEVE'S SHOULDERS HNGG) is by [angstassart](https://angstassart.tumblr.com/)! Check out her other pieces for the fic [here](https://angstassart.tumblr.com/tagged/mayatwb).

Despite the fact that their meeting together went well, Bucky finds himself thinking and worrying as he walks back to his apartment with Steve in silence, Steve with his shoulders hunched in his extremely tight shirt and a baseball cap on his head. Bucky’s not _mad_. Not really. He’s just… pissed.

Bucky told Steve about who he was and the supernatural community in a life or death situation. Sam Wilson knowing all these is not a life-or-death situation. He unlocks his front door with more force than necessary, and just stops himself from stomping inside his living room. 

“Is something wrong?” Steve asks, closing the door behind him with a click.

“No,” Bucky says, breathing in, reigning in his temper—anger which had time to stew after they left the bar and bid their goodbyes to Wilson and Clint and Nat. They have _talked_ about it. Steve asked Bucky to trust him, like Steve trusts Bucky—enough with his life, anyway. Bucky feels that wall of doubt—against his innocence? his capabilities? against _something_ —like a living, breathing thing. Bucky sighs and turns to face Steve, and startles to find Steve’s standing closer than he realized. 

His eyes flick up to Steve’s sky blue ones. This close, he can breathe in Steve’s scent, and he smells _good_ , despite being in a room full of dancing bodies and smoke and alcohol earlier. Bucky wills himself to not get distracted and focuses instead on—

“I know you said to trust you,” Bucky says. “But I hope you realize the enormity of letting a stranger know about us. About how many _lives_ the knowledge of our existence in the wrong hands can hurt.”

The community doesn’t need more mundanes, afraid and angry at their physical differences and abilities, to burn them at stake. The community doesn’t need poachers, happy to kill since they aren’t “people” anyway, to get a quick buck to hang their heads or wings on their walls like trophies. 

“I trust Sam,” Steve says, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks at Bucky, hesitating, then seems to gather his courage. “I trusted you with my life. And I trust Sam with more than that.”

Steve shifts, uncrosses his arms. “There is something going on—not just with what we learned today, but—there could be a very powerful person involved. I’ve got reason to believe that things are happening inside the system that was created to _help_. My team will be risking themselves—and their loved ones too, siding with me. If we don’t do anything, I’m afraid more people will get hurt. Both your people and mine.”

Bucky looks at Steve—the way his eyes are earnest, his body language open and yet still standing his ground. It moves Bucky in a way that he can’t explain. Steve—Steve really believes what he’s saying. And based on what they’ve learned, Steve might be right.

Bucky sighs, shoulders sagging. If HYDRA is as big as rumored and if they involve mundanes, they do need all the help they can get. “I hope you’re right.”

***

Steve sits on the bed in James’ guest bedroom, legs splayed and arms resting on his knees. A whole other—a whole other world, a whole other community, thriving and living with their own and he didn’t even know. Most people don’t even know. He groans, head in his hands, his elbows digging into the meat of his thighs.

How many deaths in the whole world were related to the supernatural? How many crimes? It didn’t matter whether they were caused by them or if they were the victims. The knowledge about their existence changes _everything_ Steve knows about the world. 

He closes his eyes and breathes. He wills himself to calm down and focus. _One step at a time, Rogers._

He takes in his surroundings to help him keep calm. The guest bedroom is sparse; a linen closet and a bed, sheets plain with two pillows against the headboard. Moonlight streams in from the window, the curtains drawn. It’s a normal room, not unlike the extra bedroom in Sam’s apartment. 

Okay, maybe he didn’t _need_ to be so dramatic. 

Good people were still good, no matter their looks… or natural abilities. Or if they turned into wolves in the full moon.

Brock comes into his head mind unbidden, his gun trained on a body that looked like Steve’s on the floor. Steve hears the shot in his head, the way his corpse looked as it bled— 

Steve shivers, blocking the images from his head. Rumlow is human, and he’d still shot what he thought to be Steve in cold blood. Steve rubs his forearms, willing the goosebumps to go down at the memory.

It has always been actions that matter. 

_Like how James helped him in his time of need, and is still helping him,_ he can’t help but think. True to his word, James has given him all the information that they had on HYDRA. Learning that their victims were possibly connected to HYDRA too shook Steve. _Something_ is happening, and it’s happening too fast. 

Steve looks out the window, the moon filling up the night sky.

He just hopes that whatever it is, they can stop it in time.

***

Bucky unlocks the door to Barnes Antiques, the key creaking in the lock. Steve follows, a solid presence behind him.

“Not gonna give me a tour?” Steve asks, looking around the store. He picks up an old music box on top of one of the tables.

Bucky looks at him over his shoulder. Steve has an eyebrow raised, but his posture is relaxed. A marked difference from the last time they entered Bucky’s shop. 

Bucky shrugs. “Couch. Antiques. Counter.” As he says each word, he points to the items, the couch leaning against the wall, the row of antique furniture in the shop, and the glass counter where he deals with payments and magic transactions. “You damage it, you buy it.”

Steve returns the music box. The ballerina spins a quarter of an inch, the tinkle of the musical notes echoing in the store. 

Bucky hides a grin as he walks behind the counter. “We should get started on your amulet.” 

He flips the white sheet covering the counter display. Inside the glass counter are several pieces of antique jewelry, the first shelf visible to everyone. The second and third shelves are blocked from the customer’s view with a red velvet cloth lining the inside of the shelves. He crouches down to open the lock of the counter.

“These are for sale, real antiques," Bucky says, at Steve’s questioning look, tapping the top shelf. “And here are items for the supernatural.”

Steve rocks on the balls of his feet, looking like he wants to rest his elbows on the counter and lean over to look. That really wouldn’t be a good idea given that the counter is made of glass and Steve looks like he’s made of bricks.

Luckily, Bucky is saved from having to make the call by the tinkling of the chime over the shop’s door. The sound of the street in the morning filters through the open door and a woman comes in, the door closing behind her.

Bucky stands up with a smile. “Mrs. Van Dyne, how can I help you today?”

***

The woman’s steps are confident, the soft click of her heels echoing in the shop as she takes measured steps towards the counter.

She looks at Steve, crows feet around her eyes, red painted on her lips. She looks at him once, eyes traveling from his face to his body in a quick scan. “Are you in line, sir?”

“No, ma’am,” Steve says, shaking his head. He feels too big for the space, even though the shop has enough room.

There’s a beat of uncomfortable silence in the air. She crosses her arms, the sleeves of her red robe trailing over her hands. Steve shuffles his feet, unsure of where to go.

James clears his throat. “This is a friend of mine. He’ll go to the back so I can assist you.” 

James inclines his head at Steve, motioning for him to follow. Steve eyes’ flick to the woman and James, then he follows. James opens an almost hidden door by the counter, at the furthest side of the shop from the entrance.

“This is the storage room,” James says, switching the light on. Half the room is filled with boxes, while the other half is filled with wire-rack shelves holding different plants. A big window bursts with sunlight from behind, draping the plants with light. “You’ve got your phone, so keep yourself entertained.” 

James moves to leave the storage area when Steve’s fingers wrap around James wrist. Much as they’ve decided to trust each other with their lives, Steve doesn’t think being trapped in an enclosed space is the best idea at any point. His brow furrows. “Are you going to lock me in?” 

James narrows his eyes at him slightly, before seeming to understand. He rolls his eyes. “So much for trust. I’m only closing the door.” 

When Steve continues to stare at him, James sighs. “I’ll put a spell up so you can see what’s happening outside.” 

Steve lets go of his wrist. James touches the door with his hand, eyes closed as he mutters a spell under his breath. A small thread of gold magic wraps around the door frame. James glances once back at him, expression unreadable, before he goes back into the shop. 

Steve looks outside, to see James settle behind the counter. The fact that he can see outside is enough; he doesn’t _need_ to watch anything. So Steve looks at his phone and goes through his contacts. A useless exercise—he already knows who he trusts wholeheartedly, a number he can count on the fingers of one hand, and he trusts that Sam will keep them up to date. Steve doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, not really, but the proximity means he can’t help hearing the conversation going on outside. 

“An amulet?” James asks. The angle from inside the storage room is good enough to see most of the whole shop, but not behind the counter. James bends down and Steve hears the slide of glass—probably the cabinet opening—and trinkets being shifted. 

“— is getting harder in our old age,” Mrs. Van Dyne says, a hint of a smile in her voice. Steve frowns; the words sound garbled, like something is interfering with the sound. 

“What, the old age of twenty?” James says, a teasing lilt in his voice. 

Mrs. Van Dyne laughs. “And this is why you never lose customers, James. Aside from your spell work.”

There’s a pause and Steve sees James bow his head, a shy smile at the corner of his lips. James is—well, he’s known James was _attractive_ since the day he first saw him, but at that moment, pleased, confident, and in his element, he looks beautiful that Steve’s breath catches.

James is looking down still, and Steve realizes that he’s working—a slight glow is emanating from his hands, his lips moving slightly, but the angle Steve’s looking from is all wrong—or rather, James has positioned himself so that Steve _won’t_ see what he’s doing. 

“These should also help with the transitions,” James says. “But for pain you should go to your healer.”

“Mhmm,” Mrs. Van Dyne says. Her mouth opens and she speaks, but Steve doesn’t hear anything. Steve frowns. A second later, his mouth drops open when he realizes that James must have put a spell to obscure their conversation.

When Mrs. Van Dyne leaves the store, her red robe ruffling behind her, Steve opens the storage area door and leans against the jamb, arms crossed.

“You didn’t tell me you’d block my hearing,” Steve says, gaze assessing. 

James gives him a look. “You can hear just fine; it’s only a small privacy spell. You already saw her. But my clients still deserve their privacy and protection, Steve. You don’t need to know what she was here for.”

_Or what she is,_ is left unsaid, but Steve hears it just the same. 

Steve—Steve can respect that. James’ consideration for the safety of others would make him a good teammate. He nods at James, flushing in embarrassment. “Sorry.”

James looks startled by the apology, before he darts a small nod back at Steve. “Get over here and let’s make your amulet.”

***

Steve’s amulet doesn’t have to come from the shop, James explains. It can be something important to him, so it could be stronger. Steve pulls out a small circular badge from inside his wallet, a gift from his Ma before he went to the Academy. A silver five pointed star sits in the middle of a blue circle, surrounded by concentric circles of red and silver.

“When I wear this, I’ll see everything?” Steve asks, a crease on his brow. 

“Yep,” James says. “Well, you won’t be able to see what the human glamours they have on look like since this amulet will let you see what they really look like.” 

Steve watches James’ hand place the pin on the table, listens to the cadence of the spell James casts. It’s beautiful and rhythmic, warm like a blanket on a cold day. Gold and bronze threads wrap around the badge, following the outlines of the star.

After the threads of magic fade, Steve looks up to find James looking at him contemplatively. “Maybe I should add a glamour to this.”

Steve wrinkles his nose. “For me?” 

James snorts. “Your disguise was fine, at _night_. But a cap and hunching your shoulders just looks like you going to a baseball game. Trust me, someone that looks like you needs a glamour.”

Steve shakes his head. “I can dye my hair.” He rubs a hand across his chin, at the growing stubble there. “I haven’t shaved since—the last time I was at home. I can grow this out.”

“That could work,” James says, tipping his head to the side, as if he’s imagining Steve with facial hair. “Contacts too.”

Steve nods. He takes his pin back and puts it back in his wallet, slipping it in his back pocket. “Any chance for a test drive?”

James snorts. “Pal, be careful what you wish for.”

***

The night finds Bucky seated on a barstool in front of his kitchen island, munching on an apple and using his laptop. He’s immersed in front of the screen, a frown between his brow, scouring SuperPedia and online forums for more information about _manananggal_ , and any other information that could possibly lead them to HYDRA.

Bucky distantly remembers humming his assent when Steve asked about using his living room earlier, then plugging his earphones back in to listen to the text-to-speech narration. He has a notebook next to him and he scribbles down important details and notes as he listens. He looks up some thirty minutes later, stretching to remove the crick in his neck, reaching for his apple when he sees Steve.

Steve is doing push-ups in the living room, the only place in Bucky’s apartment spacious enough for his routine. 

Steve is doing push-ups in his living room in loose gray sweatpants that follow the curves of his ass. 

Steve is doing push-ups in Bucky’s living room shirtless, the toned muscles of his back and his arms in Bucky’s direct line of view.

Bucky drops his apple on the counter. 

“What is it?” Steve asks, hearing the noise. He looks up and moves to his feet. A light sheen of sweat rolls down his perfect chest and towards his abs. His hair flops over his eyes, messy from the workout as he looks around, instantly alert.

“Nothing,” Bucky says, except it comes out more like a squeak.

“You sure?” Steve asks. He’s frowning, peeking outside Bucky’s living room window as if he’ll find a threat there. 

The only threat right now is Steve. He’s a threat to Bucky’s _sanity_.

Steve gives him a funny look and shrugs. He starts another set of push-ups.

Bucky groans into his sleeve. 

He breathes in, closes his eyes, then goes back to his laptop. Steve passes by sometime later, sweaty with a towel draped over his shoulder. Bucky resolutely Does Not Look, staring down at his notes—so far, all his notes corroborate what they’d learned from Sharon. He’s also learned that salt can be used to hurt _manananggal_ when placed on the lower half of their body. The idea was to torture it enough for the top half to return to protect the lower half, and to either subdue it while waiting for sunrise, or trick it to eat salt. There’s also a theory that a witch would be able to vanquish a _manananggal_ with combination of salt and magic sprinkled on the lower half of the creature. Hunting for more leads, Bucky also tried to find information about mass migrations to track the creatures over the years (there wasn’t much, aside from a small rise of population moving from provinces to cities). Undaunted, he’d tried another tactic and looked into victimology instead, but there were also no other victims of note in their area in recent years except—.

“Holy shit," Bucky says, eyes wide.

***

Steve spends the next day alone at James house while James is at work. Sam drops off a duffel bag early in the morning, along with gifts and news from the precinct—Bruce snuck in some herbal tea and Maria had tossed in a Sudoku book in his duffel. Steve’s heart fills with warmth at his team’s thoughtfulness. The reminders that his team are thinking about him strengthens his resolve to work harder and faster. He knows that the people he trusts will stay vigilant and keep an eye on Brock.

It’s a relief to finally dress in his own clothes. He goes through the stuff Sam was able to pack for him—charger, a hard drive of his files, toiletries, socks, his Kindle, what looks like his whole underwear drawer—Sam probably upended the drawer into the bag—and clothes. He grabs the CVS bag, filled with box dye, disposable contacts, contact solution, shaving cream and a razor and heads to the bathroom.

He colors his hair brown in front of the mirror. The three-day stubble is already changing his looks. Less American poster boy and more… rugged.

Once he’s done in the bath, he borrows James’ laptop and goes through the old files in the flash drive, not finding anything new. The team leaves him a report of the current status in the station—they had been told that Steve’s on “scheduled leave.” Steve bites his lip, thinking of the logic behind it. They declared him on leave, then—then maybe they’d find his body much later. This way, he isn’t reported missing and it’d be too late to gather good evidence from the crime scene, should they manage to find it. 

Steve rubs his eyes with his fists. He needs some air.

Steve considers going to the park to run, but decides against it; he’s changed his appearance but it wouldn’t do well to go out in such a populated area for no reason. He goes for a run around the block instead. Several times. James mentioned visiting a friend of his after he closes shop to follow a possible lead, and all Steve has to do is kill time until then. 

By the time twelve o’clock rolls around, he’s showered and back in James apartment and bored.

Turns out, there’s not a lot of things a dead person can do.

***

“Welcome to Barnes Antiq—woah,” James says, blinking at Steve.

Steve rubs the back of his head self-consciously. The door closes behind him. 

“Do I still need the glamour?” Steve asks, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

“I… that works fine,” James says, sounding a little strangled.

“Good,” Steve says, relaxing a little. He’s a cop; he knows how to go undercover. 

“What brings you here?”

“I got bored," Steve admits. 

James laughs. “Let me guess. You’re the type who doesn’t go on vacation, right?”

Steve feels the flush crawl up his neck. He shrugs. “I don’t feel the need for one.”

“Crime never sleeps, etcetera?” James asks. 

Steve shrugs. He’s still standing by the door. “Something like that.” It is partly like that—there’s always too much work to do, and Steve is dedicated to his job, to doing what he can to keep the city peaceful and safe. Steve loves that he can do good and help people with his job. 

He clears his throat. “Do you wanna grab some lunch?”

James blinks at him, as if surprised by the offer. “Sure.”

Steve winces internally; he hasn’t been very welcoming to James. Maybe it’s time that Steve stopped acting like James was hiding something. He’s trusted James so far, and he’s managed to stay alive, safe, and ready to face whatever lies ahead. 

They eat at a diner near the Antique Shop. Steve’s eyes widen when he realizes he can _really_ see supernaturals as they are—at the counter stands a woman as white as a sheet, her hair a dark contrast to her pale face. Their waitress that walks over to them has two ram-shaped horns at the top of her head and patterned markings around her eyes.

He leans over the table, lowering his voice. “Is this a supernatural joint?”

James quirks a smile at him and shakes his head. “Told ya you’ll see us around everywhere.”

The waitress greets them and hands Steve a menu, then flicks a grin at James. “Should I put you down for your usual?”

James smiles back, easy. “Yes, please.” 

The waitress walks away, the sound of her hooves loud on the tiled floor. 

“How do people not hear this?” Steve wonders aloud. 

“You can hear it because of the amulet,” James says, stretching his legs below the table. “The glamour covers looks and sounds.”

They have a companionable lunch. Steve makes an effort to reach out to Bucky. He talks about work at the precinct and his team, the things that matter the most to him. James tells him a little bit about his sister who’s traveling the world and about becoming friends with Clint. 

It’s a start.

***

Helen arrows her eyes at them. Her hands are clasped tightly on the glass top of the wooden table in her office. “You mean… it’s supernatural?”

The sky is starting to darken outside. Bucky and Steve had headed to the hospital as soon as Bucky closed up shop, wanting to catch Helen in person. 

Bucky nods across her. “The miscarriages you mentioned last time and the woman attacked outside the hospital? We found a supernatural creature that matches what was done to them.” 

“Fuck,” Helen says, breathing out. She looks at her hands. “I don’t know how I can help. The information about the patients are private.”

Steve nods. “We understand that, Dr. Cho. But if there’s anything you’ve noticed—patterns, similarities between the victims—anything, it would help us track the suspect.”

Helen nods.

***

The air is cool, James shrugging on the leather jacket he was wearing the first time he met Steve as they left Dr. Cho’s office.

“How does she know about you?” Steve asks, as they walk down the corridor towards the hospital exit. Maybe Dr. Cho is like Bucky.

“She’s like Clint,” James says, opening the entrance door and gesturing at Steve to exit ahead of him with a tip of his head. “Helen has supernatural blood in her—but not enough to manifest. Clint’s the same.”

Steve nods. He’s starting to understand a little bit more of this new world he’s living in.

“If legend’s to be believed, her grandmother lived for a thousand years,” James says. 

“Wha-” Steve’s question is cut off by a scream in an alley nearby. He flicks a glance at James. James eyes are wide, mouth open as if to say something, but Steve—Steve’s feet are already rushing off towards the sound.

When he gets there, it crosses his mind that _maybe_ he should’ve waited, or thought a little, because civilians don’t necessarily run towards screaming, or even offer to help. But it’s part of what makes him who he is, and he can’t not run if someone’s in trouble.

There’s a purse lying on the alley, contents splayed across the concrete—a tube of lipstick rolls and stops at his feet. A woman, round belly protruding against a dress, is against the wall, with another woman holding her by the throat. 

The second woman has dark wings on her back. Her fingers are gripping the other woman’s neck tightly, pushing her chin up. She’s leaning in close, like the whisper of a kiss—but the pregnant woman is scrabbling at the fingers on her throat, trying in vain to get free.

“Hey!” Steve calls out. The creature looks at him, eyes flashing. Steve takes an involuntary step back; the creature has wide eyes, crinkled skin, her tongue peeking out of her lips. Coupled with the wings on her back, Steve recognizes it’s a _manananggal_ from the grimoire. 

“Shit,” James mutters behind him. His cheeks are red from running after Steve.

“Let her go,” Steve says, pushing the surprise away, keeping his voice calm and authoritative. His heart is beating fast, confronting a dangerous supernatural for the first time. Behind him, he hears James mutter a spell—and the words sound familiar, like he’s heard them before.

The pregnant woman flicks terrified eyes at them, croaking out a plea. The _manananggal_ doesn’t let her go. 

Steve walks towards them with James at his heels. The _manananggal_ ignores them, her movements quick and sharp—her tongue moves out of her mouth, long and thin, slipping into the other woman’s mouth. The pregnant woman chokes, tears falling out of her eyes—James rushes past Steve, flicking white particles towards the _manananggal_. 

The _manananggal_ seems to sense it, hissing and drawing back with a cry. The white particles land mere seconds after she flinches. Steve helps the pregnant woman, openly crying now. James and the _manananggal_ are looking at each other, a small pouch clenched in James’ fist.

“You,” she hisses at James. She looks at the white particles on the ground, then at James again, eyes accusing. “You’re the reason Tina is missing. You killed her.”

“I did not,” James says, affronted. “I’m getting really tired of hearing that.”

Steve winces. He lets the pregnant woman lean on him, and walks with her away from James and the _manananggal_. 

In a low, soothing voice, he tells her that he’ll bring her to the hospital. She nods rapidly, fingers clutching his elbow, too shaken up to speak. The _manananggal_ ’s eyes flicker towards him from James, calculating. She’s outnumbered, and Steve didn’t recall reading any abilities that would make her dangerous towards two grown men. 

“You don’t have to fight,” Steve says calmly, even as he holds the pregnant woman steady. “You can surrender, and we can talk.”

She throws her head back, laughing. Her long tongue peeks out and tastes the air. “And you’re a fool. HYDRA do not talk.” She lunges towards James, the upper half of her body leaving the lower half with a squelch. Steve watches, horrified, as he sees inside of her body, her guts hanging out. 

James bites back a hiss of pain as she runs her long nails over his arm, raised just in time to cover his eyes. James puts his weight forward and pushes her torso, and runs towards the lower half of her body. She shrieks, regaining her balance, wings flapping behind her and grabs him by his hair and shoves him against the wall. 

“Fuck,” Steve says. The pregnant woman retches next to him, hysterical sobs getting louder as she kneels on the floor.

It’s then that Steve realizes James put up a cloaking spell again; surely, someone would’ve checked the alley by now with all the racket they were making.

(That, or people just didn’t care.)

Steve makes a split second decision, running towards the _manananggal_ and pushing her away from James. He winces as he touches the organs trailing below her body. She turns to him then, hissing. James has a trickle of blood running down from his temple and from the scratches of his arm. James moves towards her lower body again, one hand still gripping the pouch.

She looks at Steve, James, and then screams. “Not by you!” She uses her wings to knock James off-balance on his left shoulder. Steve feels the anger in his gut churning and moves forward, but before he can get nearer, she’s already pulled out a necklace with a tiny glass cube full of the white particles—she screams “Hail HYDRA!” as she crushes the cube over her mouth, letting out a choked scream before she slowly falls and turns into ash.

Steve feels his feet moving of their own accord, towards James. He helps him up, one hand moving under James shoulder. 

“Are you alright?” Steve asks, looking James over. He looks up and meets James gray eyes. James nods. Suddenly, Steve is conscious of how close their bodies are pressed together, the flecks of color in James’ gray eyes, the scent of James’ vanilla shampoo. 

James swallows. “Yeah, s’good.” 

Steve nods and lets him go, shoving his hand in his pocket to stop it from shaking. He looks at the ash. “She killed herself.”

James sighs. “That’s what the other one did too. At the alley.” James shoots him a rueful grin. “It’s true that some of us would rather die than be exposed to the dangers of humans. But HYDRA—” James shakes his head. “It makes me feel there’s something worse, if they choose to do this, rather than get caught.”

Steve shakes his head. “I’m really starting to hate them, James.”

“Bucky,” James says. “We just fought a _manananggal_ together. I think you can call me Bucky.”

“Alright, Bucky," Steve says, testing the name on his tongue. It feels right. He shoots Bucky a small smile. 

“Right,” Bucky says, clearing his throat, tearing his eyes away from Steve. He walks over to the woman, who’s now cradling her head in her hands. “Let’s get her to the hospital.”

***

Bucky lets the water run over him as he showers. He lets it cleanse the ash and dirt off his hair, fingers roving through the strands to untangle the knots. He closes his eyes and enjoys the peace of the water raining down on him.

He massages the shampoo in his hair, a ritual that calms him, helps take away the stress of his day. So he’s full-blown crushing on Capt. Steve Rogers, who not only ticks all of Bucky’s boxes, but is also kind and loyal, once he’s got his trust issues out of the way. Great.

He thinks of Steve’s eyes and the hard planes of his body holding him earlier. The way the corners of Steve’s mouth lifted up in a smile when he said Bucky’s name.

Bucky groans. He grips his cock and starts stroking slowly. He thinks of the way Steve acted earlier, calm even when scared at confronting something new, something out of his depth. How he was gentle with the victim, and had assisted her to the hospital, turning her over into Helen’s care. His hand moves faster over his cock, twisting at the head _just right_ , as he thinks of Steve’s easy confidence, and Steve stretching out his shirt that day in the bar, Steve in his living room exercising, the width his shoulders, the sweat rolling down the planes of his abs and— _oh_ —he comes with a shudder. 

“Fuck,” Bucky says, forehead against the tile, water beating against his back and washing the evidence of his lust down the drain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cookie for whoever guesses which creature/being Helen Cho is descended from ♥


	9. The Hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've got three amazing art pieces in this chapter by the lovely [angstassart](https://angstassart.tumblr.com/t)! The rebloggable art on Tumblr is [here](https://angstassart.tumblr.com/tagged/mayatwb).

Steve wakes to a crash outside his door. He jerks up, alert, scrambling to open the door. Bucky is kneeling in the kitchen, next to a shattered bowl. He’s picking up the glass shards carefully with one hand.

Steve’s heart slows to it’s normal beat, realizing there isn’t any external threat. He clears his throat to announce his presence. 

Bucky looks up, startled. 

“You all right?” Steve asks, his voice rough. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, blinking. He’s looking at Steve’s torso, and Steve remembers he doesn’t have a shirt on. Steve fights not to blush, and prays that his neck or his chest isn’t turning red. He’s always been a full body blusher. 

At least, his stubble has grown enough the past week into a beard that would distract from the redness on his face. Hopefully.

“I’m good,” Bucky says. He goes back to picking the pieces up. “Sorry to wake you.”

Steve stands by the door feeling useless. Bucky doesn’t need help, but it feels strange leaving someone to clean up on their own. A lock of hair falls out of the messy bun Bucky has his hair pulled into, drifting across his face. Steve wants to reach out and tuck it behind his ear.

“You’re wondering why I don’t just levitate these,” Bucky says,a tinge of amusement in his tone. He looks up again, blowing the hair out of his face. 

It’s cute. Steve swallows and leans against the doorway. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“Magic costs energy,” Bucky says. He stands up, carefully disposing of the pieces. “I still need to do things on my own.” 

“Oh,” Steve says. “That doesn’t… doesn’t hurt you when you’re working does it?”

Bucky smiles at him, soft and sweet. “I know my limits.” 

Steve feels his face flush, and is saved from responding by Bucky’s phone vibrating on the counter. 

Bucky’s face pales when he sees the message. “Nat can’t find Clint.”

***

They find Clint’s beat-up van near the city limits that night. After asking around S.H.I.E.L.D. and people who could’ve seen Clint, Natasha had finally acquiesced once the sun started to set and took Steve up on his offer to trace Clint’s phone. Maria got back to them with the coordinates.

“Isn’t Natasha coming?” Steve asks, squinting as Bucky jimmies open the front door of the van. It gives easily and opens—Clint’s phone is in the footwell. 

Bucky mutters a distracted disagreement as he picks up the phone. “She can’t. She was supposed to rendezvous with Clint last night, then go back to work. She’s been on call with us too much as it is.”

The phone blinks up at Bucky at 30% battery. He unlocks the phone—Clint’s pass code is the day Clint adopted Lucky (or the day Lucky adopted him, it depends on who you’re asking)—and swipes through the phone. Sure enough, there’s a some notes detailing directions—about three miles away from where the truck is. He pockets it and swings himself up the seat. The keys are still in the ignition. 

Steve is still standing outside the van, one eyebrow raised at Bucky.

“Get in,” Bucky says. “We’re going to find Clint.”

***

“I think we’re lost,” Bucky finally says, eyes squinting outside the windshield.

“We can’t be lost, we’re still in the city," Steve says. He looks outside the window, at the flicker of street lamps and up at the towering buildings in the distance. 

“We’ve been past this bakery three times!” Bucky says. He almost lifts his hands up like a comical cartoon character. He doesn’t because it’ll make him look like a comical cartoon character, which, even angry, is the last thing he wants to look like with Steve next to him. 

“We’re in _Brooklyn_ ," Steve argues. He was born and raised in Brooklyn. He can’t get lost. “Let me drive.” 

Bucky glares at him.

***

“I’m not going to say I told you so,” Bucky says, thirty minutes later in the passenger seat. They’re at the same intersection again, the bakery to Bucky’s left this time. “But I have no cell service, and this is definitely a trap.”

Steve sighs, leaning his forehead against the steering wheel. He exhales, shoulders bunching up and breath hitting the steering wheel. “Sorry. I was an ass.” 

Bucky looks at him and shakes his head. Steve fumbles for his phone and—yep, he doesn’t have cell service either. “Are they blocking our cell service?”

“Could be,” Bucky says, looking outside through the window. “Could all be an illusion. We have to figure out what’s happening first.”

Steve presses dial on his phone. If it was an illusion, he’d be able to call still, right? 

The line doesn’t connect at all. He sighs and keeps driving—if they take a different route, they should get somewhere else, right?

***

Wrong. They still end up at the same intersection. Steve’s tried turning in different alleys, and still they end up at the same place.

“Steve?” Bucky says.

Steve breathes in, tying shreds of his patience together. “Yeah?”

“Why is there no one around anymore?”

***

Bucky’s right. The streets are deserted; no pedestrians. Cars had stopped moving next to them. Steve feels the goosebumps crawl up his arm. He looks around, but—it was night out in the city, and there was just all this resounding silence. This—this was a just a _little_ out of his depth.

“Is it an illusion?” He asks Bucky. 

“Not sure,” Bucky says, frowning. “There aren’t signs of anything that would make this an illusion. And I can’t feel any other mage or witch’s power.” Bucky licks his lips—and Steve’s been around Bucky long enough to know it’s either a nervous tic or he’s deep in thought, but damn that was distracting. He wrenches his eyes away from Bucky’s mouth and looks out the window. 

The street lamps twinkle. Nothing to see here.

“Should we walk?” Steve asks turning back to face the deserted road. “We’re not getting anywhere driving.”

Bucky sighs. “I guess so.” 

Steve pulls over near the front of a bakery with a loud orange sign and turns the engine off.

***

They walk along the deserted street, wary. Bucky’s using a direction spell again, even though the last couple of times they tried it in the car had been a bust. The air is chilly, the quiet of the night eerily loud. The moon glows above them, bigger and brighter than Bucky’s ever seen.

Bucky glances at the figure next to him. The lights hit Steve’s face just so, drowning half of his face in shadow. His eyes are alert, calculating. 

They’ve been walking for fifteen minutes when they find themselves at the same intersection. 

Bucky lets out a curse when the green thread they’ve been following dissipates. They’re back to where they parked the car. It’s _supposed_ to lead them to S.H.I.E.L.D. His previous attempts at getting them towards the place Clint wrote down on his phone also led them back here. He sighs and shakes his head. 

He looks up and around; there has to be another way. The absence of footsteps behind him makes him stop. Bucky turns, heart thudding in his chest—please don’t let him be alone. 

Steve’s paused in the middle of the street, feet planted on the concrete. He looks up at Bucky, and he looks like he’s come to a decision, shoulders set and back straight. 

“All right there, Steve?” Bucky asks, walking towards Steve. 

“Take off your shirt,” Steve says. 

What. 

Bucky blinks. “What?”

“Trust me,” Steve says, eyes blazing blue. 

How could Bucky say no to that?

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Bucky says, sighing.

And that’s how Bucky finds himself in the middle of the street, taking his damn shirt off, and seeing Steve Rogers, object of his lust for the past few days doing the same. 

Jesus but Steve was a work of _art_. Bucky’s known his proportions were unreal, from the way he’d stretched out some of Bucky’s clothes before Sam dropped off a duffel full of Steve’s, but seeing the way Steve’s shoulder tapered down to his waist, his defined abs, and _that_ chest in the flesh is all of Bucky’s recent fantasies come to life. 

He bites in a whimper—at best, he’ll have more wank fodder. At worst, he gets stuck in this trap tonight and dies an untimely death at the young age of 29. Steve flips his shirt inside out and puts it back on. “Pants too,” Steve says as he looks over at Bucky, eyes straying to Bucky’s chest, the line of scars on his shoulder, his metal arm. 

Bucky looks away and follows Steve’s actions, turning his own shirt inside out and putting it back on. Steve’s belt clinks as he unbuckles it, and Bucky ignores the sound and the images it produces and focuses on unzipping his own pants. 

“This is gonna be really uncomfortable,” Bucky grumbles, just for something to say. He steps into his pant leg, making a face as he tries to button his jeans the other way around. They reverse their socks too, stuffing their feet back into shoes. Once Steve shrugs his jacket—inside out—back on, the world around them seems to shift and waver.

Bucky’s eyes dart around, left arm up in front of his body. Steve’s a tense line next to him. A loud sound erupts in front of them, making Steve wince. 

“Jesus fuck,” Bucky says, stumbling backwards as a creature suddenly materializes in front of them. It looks like a horse—it has a horse head for a head, complete with an elongated mane. But from the neck down, it was humanoid—it had a broad, muscular torso, with built arms and extremely long legs. Instead of hands and feet, it had hooves.

“What the—” Bucky says, eyes wide. Next to him, Steve has his face set, mouth in a grim line as he looks at the creature in front of him.

“We need to tire him out," Steve says, looking at Bucky. 

Bucky stares back. “How do you know?”

“I saw it on the book in the club,” Steve says, rolling his shoulders back, prepping for a fight. “It’s a _tikbalang_ ," He stumbles over the pronunciation. “They lead travelers astray.”

“You remembered that?” Bucky asks, eyes wide, mouth dropped open in a small ‘o’. He knows Steve was looking at the book; he didn’t realize Steve was actually reading it as well. 

Steve shrugs, but there’s a faint touch of red on his cheeks as he focuses back on the braying creature. Bucky sees Steve’s eyes flicker to his mouth before he looks away. “I have an eidetic memory.”

“Damn,” Bucky says. “That’s cool. Alright then, I’ll follow your lead.”

Steve nods. He repeats, “We need to tire him out, hopefully he’ll let us go.”

The _tikbalang_ grates a hoof against the pavement, preparing to run.

Bucky frowns, hearing the but. “But?”

Steve hesitates. “Hopefully we win by tiring him out.” He grabs his gun from his holster and aims at the _tikbalang_ , but the creature has moved forward and is charging towards them. 

They dive out of the way, Bucky using his metal arm to cushion his fall. A shot rings through the air, the sound of it going wide, missing it’s target. Bucky gets on his knees and casts a spell—a simple flashing one, to temporarily blind their opponent. 

The _tikbalang_ raises one of it’s hooves at the sudden light and socks Steve across the jaw. 

Steve grunts, head clinging to the side, backing up several feet away. Bucky winces and casts a shield for Steve, then one for himself, his left arm warming up, gold lines lighting between the dark metal. 

And in the nick of time too; the _tikbalang_ is towering above him, long legs shaking, one arm up to crash a hoof on his head. Bucky raises his arm, muttering a spell to absorb and return the impact—he winces, the hoof pinging against the metal arm, but it works, the force of the blow making the _tikbalang_ scream in pain.

***

Steve takes the opportunity and shoots, the _tikbalang_ rising up, arms flailing as a shot hits him in the chest, near his shoulder. The creature’s eyes widen and darken. He huffs through his nose, shaking his mane out behind him in agitation.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Bucky wincing and clutching his shoulder, at where his prosthetic meets skin. Bucky drags himself away, further from the fight. Steve can still see the silver and gold threads surrounding him—and surrounding himself too, actually, but he isn’t sure—

“Is this an invisibility spell again?” Steve yells out, 

“Shield,” Bucky yells back as he tears his sleeve open. He’s not far enough away that Steve can’t see the bruise already forming. “Absorbs most of the impact, but you’ll still get a bit hurt so be careful.”

The _tikbalang_ flicks his head in Steve’s direction, zoning in on him. The _tikbalang_ lowers his head, and moves one long leg behind him, hoof dragging against the pavement, almost like a horse about to charge.

 _Shit,_ Steve thinks, raising both his hands up as he fires another shot. He’s not trying to kill the creature; captured is better than dead, they need all the answers they can—and his shot embeds itself in the creature’s right shoulder. 

The creature just neighs loudly and lopes towards Steve.

“Fuck,” Steve says, turning and ducking behind a car. The _tikbalang_ hits the car from the other side, denting the doors and crashing a window. Steve fires a shot again, and the _tikbalang_ , screams, a loud angry cry as it lands on its ass. 

Steve moves closer, gun in hand. The _tikbalang_ sits on the pavement, long legs extended in front of him, bleeding all over his torso, eyes crazed. 

“Get us out of here and we’ll let you go," Steve says, projecting a calm he doesn’t feel. 

The _tikbalang_ lowers his head, and in the next second, he’s used his hoof to hit Steve’s arm, the gun flinging out of his grasp and away. Steve groans, cradling his wrist against his chest at the pain. The _tikbalang_ grabs his knees with both arms, mouth opening around Steve’s midsection—Steve can smell his rank breath, sees the saliva around his fanged teeth, and for one crazy moment, he thinks _of all the ways I thought I’d die, being eaten by a horse head was not one of them_ , when the _tikbalang_ ’s head is forced away from him. 

Bucky’s yanking it by it’s mane. Steve stumbles away, but not before the creature’s elbow hits his face. He winces, panting, heart racing at the close call.

***

“Buck! Pluck one of the three golden hairs on his mane," Steve says, wiping a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. He thinks of the pages in the grimoire. “The book said that it’s another way to stop him, but… it said the _tikbalang_ will also serve the holder of the hair until he dies.“

Bucky freezes. The _tikbalang_ brays loudly, limbs flailing. 

“It probably isn’t like that, right?” Steve asks, looking at Bucky. While he’s been learning the past few days, he still isn’t sure which parts are purely myth and which are reality. “I mean, he could still say no once it’s clear we’ve got him beat.”

Bucky shakes his head as he strengthens his grip, looking at the _black_ hair of the creature. “He’ll be bound to you for life if you do it.” 

He kicks the _tikbalang_ ’s back hard with his boot, trying to search for a gold in a sea of black. 

“Then we’ll return it," Steve says, as if that settled the deal. “He just has to let us go.”

Bucky feels a garbled noise come out of his throat because _how is this person real_. “There could be ways to circumvent it," Bucky admits. “But we’ll have to ask him. And this guy doesn’t really look sane, Steve.”

The _tikbalang_ flails again, enough that Bucky’s grip loosens. Steve runs next to him, using his strength to hold the _tikbalang_ ’s shoulders in place. Bucky mutters a spell under his breath and the _tikbalang_ ’s head glows, and two red thin read threads beam from his mane—the golden hair.

There are only two.

“Steve, there’s only two," Bucky says blinking. He grasps one strand of golden hair between his fingers, before the red threads disappear. “You sure there are three?”

“I… yeah," Steve says, muscles straining as he holds the bloody creature down. His jeans are getting soaked in black blood. Still, the _tikbalang_ struggles, as if it won’t—or can’t—feel pain.

“Someone must have the third strand then.”Bucky says, face grim.

***

Steve almost loosens his hold at the revelation. He redoubles his efforts and tightens it instead, looking up at Bucky. Someone is controlling this creature; he might not be a willing participant in this fight. Steve winces; he’s put a lot of bullets in him.

“What are we gonna do?”

“We need to knock him out,” Bucky says, mouth set in a line. He’s still holding the hair between his fingers, lax enough to not pull it from the _tikbalang_ ’s head, but strong enough not to lose it as it attempts to throw them off. “Then we’re going to find the fucker who’s made him a weapon.” 

Steve feels a shiver down his spine and go straight to his dick. They’re in a life-or-death situation and that shouldn’t be as hot as it was. 

“Any spells for knocking this guy out?” Steve asks, looking up at Bucky through his sweaty fringe. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, worried frown on his brow. “But I need a clear shot.” 

Steve nods and with Bucky’s help, they manage to push the _tikbalang_ to the ground. “Alright," Steve says, face set. The _tikbalang_ struggles and Steve grits his teeth and pushes back with all his might. 

Bucky’s hand lets go, and the _tikbalang_ surges up, but Bucky’s hand has formed the shape of a gun. He shoots the creature’s temple. 

The _tikbalang_ gives a loud neigh and falls like a light. 

“Move,” Bucky says, stumbling a little to the left—the spell he cast must’ve drained him more than his usual spells do. Steve moves. His wrist is banged up and his jaw is aching but he stands over Bucky and the _tikbalang_ , Bucky on his knees against the _tikbalang_ ’s back, keeping him pinned. Bucky’s shoulder is raw and bruised from the earlier hit. Steve hears the words flow out of Bucky’s mouth but he doesn’t understand them, only sees the whisper-thin red threads appear on the _tikbalang_ ’s mane again. This time, both threads twist into each other and move, flowing towards—the bakery with the orange sign. It slips inside and—

“Steve,” Bucky breathes. The red thread glows and solidifies.

And Steve’s only been with Bucky this past week, but he understands like they’ve been fighting creatures or criminals together for decades.

“Got it,” Steve says, running towards the bakery, grabbing his gun from where it got kicked earlier. He kicks open the door to the bakery, gun pointed in front of him. 

The red thread leads to a corner, where a man in tactical gear, a high forehead, and slicked back hair falls from a chair, surprised at the sudden noise. 

“I’m not going to—” Steve starts, ready to talk him down when the man pulls a gun out and fires. Steve curses and rolls to the side, jarring his shoulder.

“How’d you find me?” The man asks, fast and alert. His gun is trained on Steve. 

Steve blinks; the red thread is still there, loping around the man’s pants leg and into his cargo pants pocket. He looks up at the man’s face, realizing that the man couldn’t see Bucky’s magic.

Steve shakes his head, tightening the grip on his gun. 

“Don’t think about it,” the man says. “Name’s Rollins, at least you’ll know who killed ya.”

Steve kicks out, sweeping Rollins’ feet from under him. Rollins goes down with a curse and fires his gun, the stray bullet going through the window. Steve uses his weight to slam into Rollins, elbowing him hard on the nose. 

Rollins screams as his nose gushes blood. Steve tries to be fair, but he learned fighting in the streets. And the knowledge that someone would be controlling someone else—creature or not—has him angry enough to fight dirty. He knees Rollins’ in the ribs, his hand finally knocking Rollins’ gun away from them.

Panting, he levels his own gun at Rollins’ sternum, the barrel hitting hard enough to bruise. “Surrender.”

Rollins’ is taking deep gulping breathes, his eyes looking around for an escape route. He tries to throw Steve off, but Steve is stronger, angrier, and—Rollins laughs.

“What they’ll do to me is worse than what you can ever do," Rollins says. He grins at Steve, blood staining his teeth, all over his chin. His tongue works inside his mouth, like it’s dislodging something. “Hail HYDRA.” 

He bites down hard and Steve blinks, before he moves quickly, trying to pry open Rollins’ mouth before the suicide pill takes effect but—Steve’s too late. Steve’s shoulder sags, and he sits back, rubbing the heel of his palm in his eyes. 

He’s starting to _hate_ HYDRA with a passion.

He takes a deep breath and steels himself. He still has work to do. He opens the cargo pants pocket the red thread still led to, finding a small rectangular electronic device—a signal blocker—as well as a small glass cylinder with a cork. There’s a single strand of golden hair inside. 

He shifts to his knees and stands, crushing the signal blocker beneath his shoe.

***

When Bucky sees him, Bucky laughs, a mix of relief and crashing adrenaline and leftover fear. The street is still quiet, but the sound of Bucky’s tired laughter lights it up.

“That was insane,” Bucky says. He shakes his head. “You’re insane.”

Bucky’s eyes are shining, pure relief visible in them. Steve focuses on him, on Bucky’s tired yet happy eyes, Bucky’s laughter ringing in his ears that he doesn’t—he doesn’t think about it, how they’re both drenched in blood—the _tikbalang_ ’s and theirs—, how he’s holding something that _controls someone else_ in a little glass jar his hand; he just acts, relief and exhaustion pumping through his veins. He steps up to Bucky, invading his space, cups his hand around Bucky’s neck and draws Bucky in for a heated kiss. 

Bucky’s lips part beneath his own, a surprised moan stumbling from his lips, soft and sweet. A hand grips his shoulder and he hungrily loses himself in the taste of Bucky, the way Bucky’s hair feels brushing against his knuckles, thumb rubbing the soft skin at the nape of his neck. Bucky’s arm caresses his shoulder, down toward his arm, giving a squeeze. Steve lifts his other arm around Bucky’s waist and slots their bodies closer together, enjoying the sturdiness of Bucky’s body against his own, finding solace in the warmth, that they were both here, alive and _safe_.


	10. The Insight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Some folktale notes:** A _tibalang_ is a humanoid-creature that's meant to drive you insane. It does this by making you lose your way/getting lost (as in the previous chapter), or in rarer instances, showing up and interacting with you as your loved one before changing into their true form. It does not eat people. To counteract the maze trap, wear your clothes inside out. To defeat the creature, get on its back and grab one of the three golden hairs on its mane or jump higher than them (which is basically: find a needle in a haystack OR jump higher than a giant). If you manage to defeat one, it's bound to serve you for life. They can help you with farming, apparently. XD (source: [101 Kagila-Gilalalas na Nilalalang](https://adarna.com.ph/products/101-kagila-gilalas-na-nilalang?variant=7399498051))
> 
> The art pieces in this chapter are by [angstassart](https://angstassart.tumblr.com/tagged/mayatwb)!

Bucky’s eyes are blown. “Uh.” He licks his lips, bottom lip red from where Steve had finally given in and bitten. Maybe more than once. 

“Sorry,” Steve says. He blinks and says, quickly, hands squeezing Bucky’s waist from where they’re still wrapped around him. “I mean, I’m not sorry. I just—I wanted to do that, before we wake this guy up and have to run for our lives again.”

Steve is babbling. He should stop babbling. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, a small smile at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.” 

Steve snorts and releases Bucky, coughing to cover up any awkwardness. Making out while they still haven’t solved this problem probably wasn’t a good idea. He offers the small glass cylinder to Bucky. 

Bucky shakes his head. “We have to set him free.”

Steve swallows the lump in his throat. “I know. Do you have anything prepared if he decides to do a runner?”

Bucky bites his bottom lip. “I think… we hold on to it until he’s conscious enough to talk to us, then set him free.” He looks down at the _tikbalang_ lying prone at his feet. It’s still breathing, loud gaspy breaths despite the blood loss. 

Steve sets his jaw and nods. He opens the cork, shakes the cylinder onto his palm. The strand of hair falls out. He has the golden strand in his palm, and if it works, it means another being is obligated to serve him as long as he has it. He forces the bile down his throat and thinks that there will _definitely_ be a way to reverse this, one doesn’t just transfer the ownership of a living being.

He closes his fingers over the strand.

A faint glow emanates from his hand; it’s not like Bucky’s magic, beautiful and bright; instead it’s dull. Next to Bucky, the _tikbalang_ coughs and Bucky shifts away, warily, left arm up in defense.

The _tikbalang_ rolls and they watch as the bullets are slowly pushed out of its body, the blood and muscles stitching itself back together. Steve clenches his other hand around his gun, moving unconsciously in front of Bucky.

He hears Bucky snort behind him, but Bucky doesn’t move. 

The _tikbalang_ rolls crawls over to the side—and the street around them starts to disappear. Steve’s eyes widen as the buildings and the street around them warps and fades. The air is fresher, smelling of grass and leaves. There’s the rush of water nearby. Trees line his vision and to the left he sees a lagoon. The _tikbalang_ has its head in the water, greedily drinking. 

Behind him, Bucky looks around. A shuffle, then the unmistakable glow of a cell phone. “Electronics are working. Says we’re in Pelham Bay.”

The car is parked haphazardly over the grass. A few meters away from it lies Rollins’ body. Steve tries not to think of the other bodies found in this park over the years. 

“I’ll just cloak him, shall I?” Bucky asks, looking towards the body. He jogs off without a reply. 

Steve waits, one hand still ready with his gun, eyes watching the _tikbalang_ as it keeps drinking, big gulps, like it hasn’t drank for _months_.

The _tikbalang_ sits up, then squats. With his limbs folded, his knees are higher than his head.

“ _Tangina naman_ ,” He says, voice rough from disuse once Steve and Bucky approach him. Steve flicks a glance at Bucky, who looks just as confused as he does.

The _tikbalang_ looks up at them with blank, black eyes, through the shaggy mane falling unto his face.

“Can I ask you some questions?” Steve asks. 

The _tikbalang_ shrugs. 

Hoping that the _tikbalang_ understands him, Steve forges ahead. “How do I set you free?”

The _tikbalang_ blinks, as if it’s never heard that question before. Steve makes sure his movements are exact, showing the creature as he puts the golden hair back in the jar and seals the lid. “And when I set you free, will you promise not to kill yourself and answer our questions?”

The _tikbalang_ looks up at him, brow furrowed in confusion and fighting against hope. “I am not HYDRA." He lobs a huge glob of spit next to him. Steve wrinkles his nose. “They controlled me. The gave me limited food. Gave me drugs that caused a frenzy.” 

Bucky winces and squats down, elbows resting on his knees. Steve knows this tactic, had used it several times to talk to children who’d witnessed a crime. Meeting the other person at eye-level and showing them you aren’t a threat. “Sorry. We’re not here to hurt you.”

The _tikbalang_ lets out a loud braying laugh. “That’s what they said too.” 

Bucky looks like he’s about to say something, words of comfort, when the _tikbalang_ asks, “Will you really set me free?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Of course.”

“Can you prove that I can trust you?” The _tikbalang_ asks, shaking his hair away from his face. 

Steve looks helplessly at Bucky. Asking for trust from someone who’s been enslaved—someone he can’t comfort with his police badge and promises that he will do his best. Will his word be enough?

“On my word,” Steve says, because it’s still worth a shot. “We’ll set you free. Even if you don’t want to answer questions for us—though we would appreciate it if you could.”

“Any information you have will be a lot of help,” Bucky says, still squatting in front of the _tikbalang_. “Maybe we can free more supernatural creatures like us.”

“Mage,” The _tikbalang_ says, eyes taking on a warmer glow. “My name is Gardo.”

“I’m Bucky Barnes,” Bucky says. “And that’s Steve Rogers.” 

The _tikbalang_ extends his arm, hoof towards Steve. “Then give me my freedom.”

Steve does, dropping the glass canister into the outstretched hoof on a prayer.

***

“I apologize. I do not know much,” Gardo says, crushing the glass against his hoof.

Bucky’s heart sinks. “Anything you know will help us. Please. Creatures are dying and missing.”

Gardo looks up at him. “I will try, Mage Barnes.” He makes a loud, braying neigh. “For me, it started when I was taken from my home—my country and I was brought here. I imagine I am not alone.”

“Are you all… unwilling?” Steve asks, frowning.

“Are we all slaves? I am not certain. The creatures who they haven’t defeated with their natural weakness, HYDRA has drugs and machines to keep complacent. But there are creatures who roam around freely, walking in their ranks.” Gardo snorts. 

Bucky shivers; he remembers the _manananggal_ in the alley, willingly taking her own life for the sake of HYDRA. What Gardo was telling them now was vital: HYDRA had prisoners—not everyone in the organization is willing. Bucky doesn’t know if that’s better or worse. He takes a deep breath and focuses—one thing first, then another. 

“Why?” Bucky asks. 

“I don’t know much, not more than what I’ve seen. I’m only a weapon, you see,” Gardo says. “I am powerful enough to lead their enemies astray, but unwilling—and so I do not know much.”

Bucky breathes. He thinks, _one step at a time_. 

“My friend Clint is missing," Bucky says. “We got led to you when we were looking for him.”

“Perhaps he was looking for away to enter HYDRA," Gardo muses. “My job is to make sure no one does.”

Bucky swallows, hand closing into a fist in. He ignores the first question that pops in his head, _is he still alive?_ and asks, “Do you know where he is?”

Gardo tosses his head to the side, nostrils flaring. “The drugs play tricks on my memory. I know there was a man earlier—he had arrows and shot me here—but I do not remember what happened to him.”

Bucky lets out a breath. Clint fought. 

“Do you think he found the way in?” Bucky asks. 

“That would mean defeating me and defeating the agent ordered to watch me," Gardo says. “I would say, the odds are not great. Unless…”

“Unless?” Bucky asks, hope rising in his chest.

“Unless they took him too.”

“That, I can work with," Bucky says, clinging on to the lifeline. Clint has been his friend for ten years, since Clint dropped out of a tree he was napping in and onto a trash can near where Bucky had been having a messy argument with his then-boyfriend. 

Gardo leads them a mile away from HYDRA’s entrance. “Continue the path straight ahead. I will stay out here. I cannot save you should anything happen, but I can help you leave after you save your friend.”

“Thank you,” Steve says. 

“I wish you luck.” Gardo looks at Steve in the eye, bowing his head. “And I owe you a favor, anytime.”

“You don’t have to," Steve says, shifting from one foot to the next. 

“Do not be rude, Steven Rogers," Gardo insists. “My life was in your hands. You have returned it, without need, without guarantee that I would provide the information you seek. I am in your debt.”

Bucky jabs his left elbow into Steve’s side. Steve winces, visible this time. He swallows and nods, accepting the offer.

***

There are _cages_. Dark wrought iron bars in an enclosed space. Some of them were hung from chains from the ceiling.

Inside the cages were _manananggal_ , two or three to a cage. Their wings could barely fit in the enclosed space, and they barely had any room to move. 

Only the top halves of their body were in the cage. 

“They’re treating them worse than animals,” Bucky says, anger and disgust in his tone. 

A couple of HYDRA agents were walking between the cages, smoking. One of them stopped and turned towards the cage, a smirk on his lips. The _manananggal_ in the cage stepped back, but it didn’t matter much—there wasn’t any space to back away. The agent reached through the bar and put his cigarette out on her skin. Her scream echoes through the warehouse. 

Bucky flinches, and Steve feels him half-rising from his hidden position behind large crates. Steve places a calming hand on Bucky’s arm. 

“Do you see Clint?” Steve asked. This was a rescue mission. His blood was boiling, and he wanted to act too—but he’s had years of training drilled into him. They needed to get one thing done first, then they could think about what to do next. 

Gardo had left them a mile away from HYDRA’s entrance; Bucky and Steve had entered using a couple of Bucky’s spells, cloaked from view. 

Bucky shakes his head, his fist shaking. Steve’s about to suggest to look for a different route—a staircase, perhaps, when a familiar voice hits his ears. 

“What is that racket?” Alexander Pierce walks into view, in a three-piece suit and flanked by four HYDRA agents. One of them was Brock Rumlow.

Steve feels all the air constrict in his lungs, chills running down his spine. To have someone so powerful belong in this organization… 

“She’s complainin’, boss," The HYDRA agent who burned her with a cigarette says. “Wants to be free.” 

The other agent snickers. 

“Oh?” Pierce stops in front of the cage. The creature inside huddle together, trembling. “Bring her downstairs. We can’t have these filthy creatures thinking they can do what they want. ”

“NO!” The _manananggal_ yells as the two agents open the cage. “No, no, please, I’m sorry.”

The agent drags her out by the arm, her shrieks echoing throughout the chamber. 

“An hour in the chamber for each noise you make," Pierce says. 

She quiets, tears streaking down her face.

“It’s too bad we can’t accurately count this noise," The HYDRA agent tuts. He snickers as they lead her down the warehouse. “Looks like we’ll have to estimate.” 

Next to Steve, Bucky is shaking even more. Steve slides his hand down from its grip on Bucky’s arm, carefully opening Bucky’s shaking fist. There are red welts on the skin from how tightly he was gripping it. 

“You with me?” Steve asks, holding Bucky’s hand. The HYDRA agents enter a staircase to the left, near where Steve and Bucky are hidden. 

“Yeah. Yeah," Bucky says, taking deep breaths.

Steve nods. Pierce’s voice booms across the area again. 

Pierce is walking towards the exit, voice clear. “Begin killing more targets tomorrow—use the _manananggal_ and some of the creatures on Level Two. We want more dead bodies on the news.“ He turns to Rumlow. “And make sure not to leave any evidence we’ll need to get rid off this time.”

“Yes, sir," Rumlow says. “Hail, HYDRA.”

They leave. 

Steve feels a twist in his gut, the puzzle pieces falling into place. Brock definitely got rid of the half-body—the _manananggal_ his team found. That doesn’t explain _why_ they had to kill Steve too. He looks around the warehouse, at the filthy cages—while HYDRA were definitely using the creatures, they definitely did not want supernatural bodies out in the open.

Steve blows air out of his mouth and looks at Bucky. One thing at a time, he reminds himself. He nods towards the staircase the two HYDRA agents went to earlier. “Let’s look for Clint.”

***

They find Clint on the second floor. Unguarded, but only because Bucky and Steve saw the two agents manning the floor moving downstairs instead, towards the place where they saw the others drag the _manananggal_ earlier.

Bucky looks around. They’re in a long hallway with prison bars—the cells roomier than the cages down below. Each cell had a tech pad next to it. 

The cell nearest them is full, the smell of blood high in the air. The lower bodies of the _manananggal_ are all contained in one cell, the blood and guts open and exposed. 

Bucky fights down a gag at the conditions the _manananggal_ are in—already imprisoned, and separated from their lower halves, guaranteeing no escape. Even if they did manage to leave their cages, any of the agents could get to their lower halves and kill them.

Bucky takes a deep breath and tightens his hold around his magic, the cloaking that keeps him and Steve hidden still. 

It’s been a long night and he can feel the exhaustion running through his veins.

_Just a little more,_ he thinks. 

A menacing growl comes from one of the cells, followed by two long sniffs. 

Bucky and Steve cautiously make their way down the corridor—a werewolf was in one cell, eyes red and looking around with his nose in the air. In the next, a silver haired teenager—no older than nineteen, eighteen, sits with his back against the left wall of his cell, his eyes closed, scars on his face. In the next cell, a female teenager sits with her back to the right wall—if the walls were removed, they’d be sitting back to back. She’s looking outside her cell, eyes flicking to the left and right.

Across her cell, sitting on a bench inside his own cell sits Clint. 

Bucky breathes a sigh of relief and hastens towards the cell, Steve close behind. Steve frowns at the tech pad while Bucky whispers and hisses through the cell bars to Clint. 

Clint blinks, dazed. He looks banged up, a black eye and a bad bruising on his arm, dried blood on the side of his temple. “I’m finally going crazy.”

Bucky lets out a silent, relieved laugh. “I’m really here, idiot.”

The werewolf in the other cell growls. “Who’s there?!”

The male teenager opens his eyes and stands in a flash, looking outside his cell. The female teenager’s eyes are wide, her eyes passing over Bucky and Steve. 

Clint stands and limps over to the cell bars. He squints. “Bucky?”

“Here,” Bucky says, stepping to the side so he’s face to face with Clint, even if Clint can’t see him.

“They think I’m super,” Clint coughs. He grins, batting his eyes at where he thinks Bucky is. “Have you come to save me? My prince charming.”

“Do you know the codes for the cells?” Steve asks.

“And Steve, too! Ey, Steve," Clint says, pretty jovial for someone trapped. 

“If you put the wrong code in, it’ll alert security," The female teenager says, voice quiet but clear. “It’ll light the bars up with electric currents and force the cell into lockdown.”

Steve whips around to face her, frowning. 

“She’s cool," Clint says. “That’s Wanda, and her brother Pietro. She’s a seer, he’s a healer. Wanda, Pietro, this is my best buddy Bucky and our new friend Steve, even if you can’t see them.”

The werewolf to their left growls. 

“He doesn’t seem very friendly," Bucky says, eyebrow raised.

“He’s starved and practically feral," Wanda says, worry seeping into her voice. She grips her hands around the bars of her cell. “You can’t take Clint.”

“You can’t take me,” Clint agrees.

“The fuck,” Bucky says.

“Listen,” Clint says, face close to the bars. “Did you see what they’ve got down there? We have to save those people down there, Bucky.”

“I know,” Bucky says, holding on to the threads of his magic. “So let’s get you out of here and let’s get everyone out of here.”

“You won’t succeed,” Wanda says, eyes an eerie red. “They’ll overrun you and they’ll take you.”

Steve purses his lips. “You can’t be sure about that.”

“Her visions are never wrong,” Pietro says, an undercurrent of anger. “Why do you think out of all the seers in the world, all the seers actually _willing_ to work for this hellhole, she’s the one they took?”

Bucky bites his lip. Seers usually have a 25% chance of their visions being correct. A seer with a hundred percent accuracy is a rare thing.

“Bucky, listen. It’s a ring. HYDRA is trafficking creatures all over the world," Clint says. “Some, they sell to the highest bidder.”

“They kill a lot too,” Pietro says, monotone. “They take parts and auction them off—like hunting trophies.”

Bucky feels bile rise up in his stomach. “Fuck.” He trembles a little. 

“But those are just side businesses," Pietro continues. “A way to build powerful connections. Their real vision is to take over the world, one country at a time.”

Steve shakes his head. 

“They want to strike fear. To create a world so chaotic people would give their freedoms willingly," Wanda laughs, an ugly choked up sound. She sounds like someone who’s heard the rhetoric her whole life and wants to spit and burn the place to hell. 

“We saw _manananggal_ downstairs," Steve says.

“They’ve begun. All the deaths are meant to strike fear. Soon, they’ll move to more victims," Wanda looks at the werewolf in his prison.

Steve sucks in a breath. 

“They want to pit us against each other," Bucky says, realization dawning. “Humans against creatures.”

“If that’s the case, why can’t they just grab one of the creatures downstairs and expose them in the media? That’ll work," Steve asks. 

“There’s too much of us now,” Bucky says. “We communicate. We’d have an actual shot at surviving witch hunts.”

Wanda nods. “So they have to begin from the ground up. They have to plant the seeds of fear. They have to kill.”

“They have to show dead bodies," Steve says, finally understanding. “Corpses whose methods of dying are only supernatural in nature.”

“Correct," Wanda says, a tired smile on her face. “I told him you’d be instrumental in bringing HYDRA down, Steve.” 

Steve frowns. Wanda isn’t looking at him; Bucky’s charms are still up. “Him?”

“Alexander Pierce," Wanda says.

“You’re the reason I’m in hiding," Steve says, understanding dawning on him. He shakes his head. “Why go after me? He was threatening me, but he didn’t have to send people to kill me. There are plenty of other ways he could’ve used his influence to stop me—my case—without resorting to extremes.” 

Wanda nods. “Pierce does not like anything that can ruin his plan. When your team found Tina—the _manananggal_ that managed to escape but was found and punished—, he was livid. She was never supposed to be found by the police. Brock cleaned it up, but you—I had to tell him about you. I had to, so that he’d send for you. Now he thinks you’re gone. You can still bring them down. But you have to leave.”

“The guards will be making their rounds soon," Pietro says. 

“Well, let’s get you all out of here.”

“Bucky boy," Clint says. His eyes are hard. “How long have you been using your magic, huh? There’s no time.”

“Nat might kill me,” Bucky starts. His breathing is labored. 

“Maybe,” Clint says, grinning a little. “Tell her to come get me herself.”

“Now she really _will_ kill me," Bucky laughs. 

“Go,” Wanda hisses. “If you don’t leave, we’re all in danger. Come back in the next full moon.”

The werewolf has plastered himself around the bars of his cell, growling at all of them outside.

“We’re already in danger,” Steve grits, looking around for a way to enter her cell. He looks like he’s debating wrecking the controls. 

Bucky has a sister, and the force of Wanda’s glare rivals Becca’s when Bucky said that JC Chasez was hotter than Justin Timberlake back when they were younger. 

“Get reinforcements, okay? Come back for me and the rest. Get _everyone_ ," Clint says. 

Bucky’s heart clenches and he thinks he can’t leave two kids here, he can’t leave his best friend here, and he can’t leave the creatures downstairs—his hands shake at trying to hold on to the threads of his magic. 

He doesn’t know if he can last much longer without passing out. 

“You won’t be able to save anyone if you stay,” Wanda says. Her eyes flick to where Bucky is. “I saw you leave, in my vision. It needs to happen this way.”

Steve sets his jaw. “You’re too young to sta—

“I’m nineteen and I’ve been here for nine years. I’ve lost any innocence you think someone of my age has.”

“Just go,” Pietro grumbles. “Make sure you’re still alive to come back for us.”

“The creatures will be stronger on the full moon," Clint says. “Wanda saw that it’ll give us a fighting chance.”

Bucky breathes, hands shaking.

***

“Steve,” Clint says. “Go. Bucky’s not going to last much longer.”

“What?” Steve asks, looking at Bucky in alarm. Now that he looks closely, Bucky is deathly pale, swaying a little. 

Steve suppresses a worried growl, taking one of Bucky’s arms and resting his weight on his shoulder. Bucky sags against him, warm and solid. Steve takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart, mind quickly going through his options—he could stay and try to save Clint and Pietro and Wanda and everyone without knowing how to open any cells, and risk Bucky; he could stay and get caught; or he could leave and come back with reinforcements and get an actual shot at freeing everyone. 

The cloaking spell flickers. Wanda and Pietro gasp in surprise as Steve and Bucky flicker into view then disappear again. 

“I promise we’ll man the fort here. When you come back, we’ll be ready to fight," Clint says. He looks worriedly at Bucky. “Go.” 

“We can do it now,” Bucky insists. He’s so pale.

“You can better help us alive than dead, Bucky," Clint says. 

Steve takes a deep breath. “We’ll come back. I promise.” 

Steve tightens his hold on Bucky’s arm and ushers him away.

***

Gardo meets them a mile from the entrance, right where they left him. He sees Steve and Bucky’s almost collapsed form. “I am sorry that you did not retrieve your friend.”

Steve bites his lip and makes a decision. Bucky’s leaning most his weight against him, and Steve just wants to take him away to some place safe. “Listen, that favor you mentioned. I’m going to call it in now.”

***

Bucky sleeps the whole drive away. Steve flicks worried glances over at him in the rear view mirror, Bucky’s form passed out on the bed of Clint’s truck.

Steve looks at the rear view mirror again. Bucky’s curled in on himself, one hand falling across the seat and dragging on the floor of the truck. Steve swallows. 

He drives them back to S.H.I.E.L.D.


	11. The Decision

Two furious pairs of eyes glare at Steve. 

“What did you do to him, Rogers," Natasha asks, her tone flat, hands moving towards Bucky. Steve moves to help, but Natasha lifts Bucky up on her own, lifting one arm across her shoulder. Sharon puts Bucky’s other arm across hers. “And where is Clint.”

Her voice is cold and clipped. 

Natasha’s true form looks almost exactly the same as she did when Steve first met her. Pale, beautiful, canines sharp. Sharon, on the other hand, is taller than Steve, her long hair stringy as it flows down her mane. 

“He passed out,” Steve says, awkwardly shuffling as he watches them—a kelpie and a vampire—lift Bucky. He closes the truck door. “Uh, about Clint.”

Natasha stops in the street.

“Let’s bring Bucky in, Nat," Sharon urges. “I don’t like how pale he is.”

_Neither do I,_ Steve thinks. He takes a deep breath, kicking down the guilt at leaving someone on his team—because in this strange new reality, Clint _is_ in his team. “Clint’s alive.”

Natasha starts walking again. Steve follows as they walk behind the S.H.I.E.L.D. building, towards the back entrance. Sharon gives him a look, before she uses her own blood to grant Steve entrance. 

Steve hesitates. He’s a stranger here, he knows. 

They don’t have time.

“I need your permission.” 

Sharon looks back at him over the threshold. “I already gave blood, you can come in.”

“I need… I need to call my team here.”

Natasha glares at him.

***

“Jim Morita, witch doctor,” The man says, shaking Steve’s hand. “Literally.”

He’d arrived twenty minutes after they did, Sharon immediately calling for help and Natasha walking into the bar for—Steve doesn’t know what for. 

Bucky’s lying prone on the plush couch in Sharon’s office, deathly pale. 

“What did Bucky get into now?” Jim asks, shaking his head. He kneels next to Bucky, shining a flashlight into his eyes. His hands move to Bucky’s wrist, taking his pulse. He tuts, and gingerly removes Bucky’s shirt, before slowly detaching Bucky’s left arm, whispering a steady stream of words under his breath. 

Steve wants to keep vigil, stand and watch, make sure Bucky is alright, but Natasha comes back, her lips redder than ever. Sharon and Natasha—red nails digging into his forearm—drag him to a corner.

He tells them everything.

***

Steve’s team arrives after he sends them a text that basically boils down to telling them there’s grave danger, that he understands if they want no part in it. It makes his heart swell with pride, even as he tamps down the worry of getting more people involved in this. But they need all the help they can get and his team is trained to deal, to fight, to diffuse—even if they aren’t trained to deal with the supernatural. They all cram into Sharon’s office.

Natasha and Sharon have called a few other friends of theirs as well, Dugan and Dernier and Gabe and Falsworth—a group called the Howling Commandos, most of whom are werewolves but a couple—like Gabe—are supernatural creatures that Steve isn’t familiar with.

Bucky’s still on the couch, but he’s sitting up—for a given value of sitting. He’s practically molded into the couch cushions, his eyes half-mast as he looks around the room. Natasha is sitting next to him, slowly trying to make him drink something Morita had brought for him. Steve’s hovering next to the arm rest closest to Bucky. 

It would have been easier and faster if Steve could have told everyone what happened. A lot more efficient. But he also knows he’s a stranger in this place. A human, part of a race that persecuted supernatural creatures for centuries. And as they saw in the warehouse, are _still_ doing so.

Aside from Bucky vouching for him, the others don’t trust him as much, if at all. 

But the next full moon is two nights away. 

“I feel like I should stand on top of the bar in S.H.I.E.L.D. and tell everyone about it,” Bucky jokes after he’s finished updating the whole room about what happened, head at an angle on the sofa. He sighs. “But who’s to say everyone in the bar is on our side?” 

“This could be a trap," Natasha says. She’s been quiet since Steve had told her and Sharon what he’d found out. She looks calmer, at the very least, that Steve’s and Bucky’s stories match up.

“Why should we trust her?” Gabe asks, chewing on peanuts he’d grabbed from the bar upstairs.

“She’s a _prisoner._ ”Morita says. He’s standing next to Bruce, both of them talking science and medicine. “That should be enough.”

“It could be part of their plan," Sharon says, leaning back against her desk. 

“To… what?” Bruce asks, not unreasonably.

Sharon frowns, then shrugs. Steve understands the concern; the hurt and distrust the creatures have for humans runs deep. 

“Clint trusts her," Bucky says, calm. He sits up enough so that he can look Natasha in the eye. “That’s enough for me.” 

“Clint trusts too often," Natasha says, looking away from him.

“You know as well as I do that Clint has amazing instincts when it comes to that.” Bucky says, voice sure and patient. 

“Look.” Bucky looks around the cramped room—mundanes and supernaturals alike. “I know we’ve got a bad history here. Mundanes haven’t been kind to us since the 1700s.” He gives a nod towards Sam, Maria, Riley, and Bruce, acknowledging the humans in their midst. “But if we want a chance at taking HYDRA down—if we want a chance at saving our people, freeing Clint—we have to work together.”

“We could go there all on our own. But having them on our side could help.” He glances sideways at Natasha. “Have some non-supernatural back-up.”

“I’m in," Steve says.

Sam snorts. “Of course you are.” He sighs. “You know how certain organizations think they’re this huge far-reaching network, but in the end it’s like, four people in a basement?” 

Dernier gives a hum of assent. 

Sam looks around the room. “I’m not saying it’s four people in a basement, but it could just be a few extremely fanatic people. It’s not unheard of for cults to span different countries but still have low numbers.”

“That’s definitely possible," Maria says. “Some cults do have influential people in their ranks to bring in more people. But we can’t know for sure until we catch them.” 

“This cult has Alexander Pierce at the helm," Riley says. “We have to go.”

“Yeah," Sam sighs. “Son of a bitch.”

“I’m in too," Dernier says. “Get the chance to blow some things up.”

“I’ll go," Sharon says, shrugging. The rest of the room gives their agreement or refusal, the air charged and solemn. Bruce and Morita are on standby for any post-battle injuries. Finally, it’s down to Nat. 

Bucky looks at Nat. She’s sitting on the arm of the couch, legs crossed. The look on his face tells Steve he doesn’t expect Nat to go.

“I’m going," Nat says, meeting Bucky’s gaze. She smiles a little. “He dared me to.”

“We have to plan this out thoroughly," Steve says, face set. He’s already thinking of all the possible outcomes of an attempted large-scale rescue. “If not… there’s a very real chance your secrets—your existence will be exposed.”

“Leave it to me," Natasha says, voice sure and eerily calm. It gives Steve goosebumps. 

“I think you’re a great lady with amazing capabilities," Sam says. “But how in hell will you do that?”

“How do you think we’ve managed to stay hidden for so long?” Natasha asks, eyebrow raised. 

“In case you haven’t noticed, we’re pretty much everywhere," Dugan says helpfully, twirling the end of his mustache. 

“I thought your people didn’t like humans," Steve says, frowning at Natasha.

“We don’t," Natasha replies. “That’s why we make sure we’re never exposed the way we were before, not again. That we remain myth and legend.” She takes on a steel gaze. “I’ve been doing my job for centuries and I don’t expect to fail now.”

***

Steve switches the lights on in Bucky’s room. Bucky’s arm is around his shoulder, leaning on him. If he’d been leaning more and more of his weight on Steve from the walk from entering his house to his bedroom, neither of them mention it.

He helps Bucky to his bed. Bucky settles on the sheets, pillow behind his back. 

Steve stands still, looking at Bucky’s downturned mouth, his face pale and weary. The night really took its toll on Bucky. Steve bites his lip, needing something to do, needing to _help_. “Do you need help with your clothes?”

Bucky flicks eyes to him, blinks, and nods. Steve plants one knee on the bed and helps Bucky tug his shirt up and off. 

“Gotta say,” Bucky says, voice quiet. He _finally_ has a small smirk at the corner of his mouth when he emerges from the cotton, clad in his undershirt. “This isn’t the way I imagined we’d be taking our shirts off the first time.”

Steve lets a ghost of a smile play on his lips. “You imagine me taking your clothes off?”

“Among other things," Bucky says, giving him a quick once-over. Steve does too, sees the strong torso almost molded to the fabric of the thin cotton and the mottled scars on Bucky’s left arm.

“You can ask,” Bucky says. He shucks his jeans off, tosses them on the floor, and leans back against the headboard. 

Steve looks into Bucky’s eyes—gray, exhausted, and vulnerable—and shakes his head. “It’s alright," He says softly. “You should sleep. You need to get your strength back.”

“Later," Bucky says, voice quiet but firm. He pats the space next to him, then smoothes out the creases of the sheet. “I want to tell you. Sit down.”

Steve gingerly sits on the bed, his body facing Bucky. 

“When I was young,” Bucky says, looking past Steve’s shoulder as if there was a memory there. “My mom—my mom was a great witch.”

“But people who make it their life’s work to help others are always in danger," Bucky’s says, mouth twisting into a rueful grin. “I was eight. My sister was six. A demon attacked our home. I remember my mom telling us to run and hide.”

“So we did, upstairs to my bedroom. Becca was so scared," Bucky says, looking at his lap. His hand is trembling; this isn’t a story he’s told anyone. “There was a lot of noise. Light. Magic energy. When things went quiet, the door to my room opened and I thought it was our mom.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, heart heavy. “Bucky you don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Bucky says, throat clicking. “But then the door opened, and it wasn’t Ma who was coming in. And I didn’t know what to do, Becca was so young, she didn’t even know how to do simple spells yet. I had only just started learning the basics of harnessing and controlling my own power.”

The tree outside Bucky’s window sways in the wind. In a few hours, the sunlight will slowly enter Bucky’s window.

Bucky takes a deep breath. “But I knew that something bad had happened, and I knew I had to protect Becca. So I tried to protect her. I knew that I had to channel my magic and let it flow. And I—I used up a lot of magic, I didn’t bother with any control, I used up enough that I… managed to kill the demon. I killed the demon—but I also lost my arm.”

Steve sucks in a breath, his heart twinging. “I’m sorry.”

“I protected Becca, and I don’t regret that," Bucky says, looking at Steve. “But it was the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced. I was out of it for a week. I destroyed my bedroom and part of our hallway. My ma—who got knocked out but was alive—was afraid I wouldn’t wake up.”

Bucky flexes clenches his left arm into a fist, then opens it, looking at the gold lines running through the black. “So now I have this. It channels my magic accurately—more than my last arm.”

“I’m not altruistic. I don’t need to prove anything to anyone. I’m no hero. But Clint—and Nat—have been going after HYDRA for a long time, trying to find out if its real and if we need protection from it.” Bucky shakes is head, as if to clear his thoughts. “I don’t work deep in the community like Clint and Nat do. But all the things HYDRA has done—all the lives they’ve taken, all they can still take? I can’t stand by and do nothing anymore.”

Steve nods. Slowly, he reaches over the covers and puts his hand over Bucky’s curled fist. He understands.

“It’s my fight now too," Steve says, meeting Bucky’s eyes. Slowly, he unfolds Bucky’s fingers from his fist and runs his palm against Bucky’s before tangling their fingers together. “And not just because Alexander Pierce is there. What they’re doing is horrible. The people they’ve kidnapped should be set free, and HYDRA punished for their crimes.”

Bucky hold his gaze for a few long seconds. Steve feels like something’s shifted again, like they’re on the precipice of something new, on the edge of another change. 

The wristwatch on Bucky’s night table lets out a small beep signaling the start of the new hour, breaking the spell. 

“Your moral compass is always pointing north, isn’t it?” Bucky asks, a small smile at the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t let go of Steve’s hand. 

“I went in to the force because I wanted to do good. I want to help people. Humans, supernatural, it doesn’t matter," Steve says. Then he snorts. “This moral compass almost got me killed.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asks.

“Yep," Steve says. “Luckily, I ran into a mage, so now I’m only pretending to be dead.”

Bucky grins. “Well, lucky you then.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, the truth of it, the softness and sincerity of his voice startling even him. “Lucky me.”

Bucky blinks at him in surprise, then looks down at their joined hands with a hint of red on his cheeks. He clears his throat. “Uh. We should go to bed. We need all the rest we can get.”

“Right,” Steve says, giving Bucky’s hand one last squeeze before letting go and standing up. “You should rest up and get your energy back.”

“You could stay," Bucky says, right hand already working on removing his left arm. Steve freezes, one hand on the doorknob. He looks back at Bucky.

Bucky’s gaze is clear. His voice is low but it carries across the room, clear and sure. “I’d like it if you stayed.” 

Steve nods. “Okay.”

***

Steve climbs into bed, shucking off his jeans and socks. Bucky is already taking up one side, watching him with a steady gaze. Steve gathers the last bits of courage he has for the night, and rolls so he’s closer to Bucky, sharing his warmth.

Bucky melts into him. “Built like a brick, Jesus," Bucky mutters appreciatively into his shirt collar, his breath tickling Steve’s chest. 

Emboldened, Steve lifts both arms around him, one around Bucky’s shoulders and the other sliding down his back and resting on the strip of skin above Bucky’s undershirt and boxers.

He rubs his thumb absentmindedly over the exposed skin, thinking about how, just a couple of weeks ago, his life consisted of a simple routine—getting up, going to work, staying overtime. Rinse and repeat.

Now, the very thing that’s kept him going his whole life—working as part of the force to help people, has been shaken. Alexander Pierce, someone who has vast influence over the institutions Steve believes in, is also the leader of the very thing Steve’s sworn to fight against.

The monsters he read about as a child are real—but they aren’t really monsters. Not all of them. 

Steve closes his eyes.

And he has… this. Bucky sighs into his neck, his breaths falling into an even rhythm. Steve’s arm tightens around him unconsciously. 

It’s only been a few weeks, but Steve’s life has completely been turned upside down. 

He looks down at Bucky’s face. He’s peaceful in his sleep, the lines gone, even if he is still pale in the moonlight. His dark lashes rest on his cheeks. He thinks of how Bucky had fainted earlier, how Natasha and Sharon were both angry with worry, how Morita had taken what felt like _ages_ to revive Bucky, how Bucky had refused to leave Clint, how Bucky had looked at him just a few minutes ago, eyes sincere and honest and vulnerable. 

Steve swallows, heart in his throat. 

He swears he’s not going to lose this.


	12. The Mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by angstassart! Give them some love here on their [Tumblr](https://angstassart.tumblr.com/tagged/mayatwb)!

The breeze is cool and the sky is lit with stars. The full moon shines bright in the dark.

It’s a beautiful night.

Bucky looks up at the sky and hopes that Clint is okay, and that whatever happens tonight—he hopes that they’ll be able to save people. 

They had spent the last two nights strategizing and hashing out plans for the rescue, meeting at S.H.I.E.L.D., an ever-revolving array of creatures and humans passing through Sharon’s office.

Now, it’s finally time.

***

“This concludes my debt, Steven Rogers," Gardo says, his tall form looming over them all.

Steve nods. “Thank you.”

“Won’t you stay and fight?” Dugan asks, thumbs hooked on his belt loops. 

Gardo looks with beady eyes around the assembled motley crew of humans and creatures. 

Probably sizing up on whether they can win or not, Steve thinks. 

“Or stand guard," Nat says, head cocked to the side. “You can protect us from mundanes discovering this.”

Gardo looks around them all again. He lets out a nervous-sounding neigh.

“I no longer wish to be near HYDRA any longer," Gardo says, bowing his head. He shudders. “I am truly sorry. The outcome of this fight is uncertain. I do not wish to be enslaved again.”

“We understand,” Bucky says. “We’re sorry for making you stay so long.”

Gardo nods. “I wish you all luck.” And with one last braying neigh and a small bow, he walks off into the moonlight.

***

They move to their hiding places, moving closer to the warehouse. Without Gardo around, the streets are coming back into view, highlighting that the base isn’t as far off from the city.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” Dernier says, clapping his hands once. Nat stands next to him.

“Be careful," Bucky says.

Dernier grins at him. Nat just gives him a cool glance, a quiver of arrows and a bow strapped behind her back, already slinking into the shadows.

The pair of them sneak into the warehouse. If all goes according to plan, they’d go for Clint and the twins first.

***

“Bucky,” Steve whispers. They huddle behind some bushes near the warehouse, with a good vantage point of the front. The rest of the team is scattered around the entrance.

“What?”

Steve takes a deep breath, gathering his courage. He’s been thinking about this, about when to tell Bucky, and it never really seemed to be the right time with the preparations and Bucky recovering. But sitting here now and knowing that the future is uncertain, worrying that he might not be able to say anything—

“Just in case we don’t survive—,” Steve starts. 

The night falls heavy like a blanket between them. 

“Shut up,” Bucky says, cutting him off. “Only punks say shit like that. Tell me after we make it.”

A small upward tick appears on the corner of Steve’s mouth. He lets out a small chuckle, eyes bright. “Alright.”

***

“This is insane,” Sam says, shaking his head. He adjusts his charmed goggles, an amulet that lets him see creature’s true forms. He’s close enough to the entrance doors to see inside.

“Ready?” Steve asks. 

“I’m terrified,” Maria says, her tone cool as a cucumber. She’s wearing charmed diamond earrings. “So yes, I’m ready.

Falsworth’s eyes glow. 

Nothing happens for thirty minutes. Then it happens almost within seconds. Over the warehouse, a smoking image appears of a red star. 

Bucky gets up from his crouch, ready to move. Around him, the others do the same. 

Then they hear the explosion. 

“Let’s go!” Steve yells. 

They storm in the warehouse.

***

It’s utter pandemonium.

The fight’s already begun, a swarm of HYDRA agents scattered around the first floor. A couple of cages are open, while on the floor Steve sees Dernier and Nat in the melee. Above them, a hawk flies through the air and gouges the eyes of a HYDRA agent. 

“YA GO KATE!” Clint yells enthusiastically before flinging an arrow towards a cage lock. The lock disintegrates and the _manananggal_ inside rush out, joining the fray. 

“A hawk?” Sam asks, looking up. “Oh, woah. Nevermind.” He ducks behind a metal container as bullets move towards him.

Steve risks a quick glance at the flying bird. It _is_ a hawk, but much, much larger. It’s probably almost three feet tall, with a wingspan of four feet.

“Werecreature?” Steve asks as he covers Bucky’s six, shooting HYDRA agents while Bucky works on freeing the _manananggal_ from their cages.

“Yep, werehawk," Bucky says. To the people inside the cage, he says. “Sorry about this. We’ll try to cover you if you want to run.”

“Fuck that,” the first woman says, and flies out the cage as soon as Bucky manages to unlock it, heading straight for the head of a HYDRA agent grappling with Sharon. 

Steve keeps watch, taking down anyone coming near Bucky when he hears a familiar voice call out. “Where are the twins? Grab the girl and burn this place down!”

Steve turns towards the voice, coming from the stairwell. He glances at Bucky. “You alright if I leave you here?” 

Bucky breaks another lock with his magic, and the cage right next to him also opens with an arrow disintegrating the lock. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

Steve nods and heads straight towards the voice, gun at the ready. He stays against the wall as he moves, and he finally sees Rumlow in the hallway amidst open doors. 

The door to Steve’s left is open. Inside, he sees bloodstained shackles on a constructed wire fence, with an electric generator nearby. He remembers the _manananggal_ they saw being dragged downstairs the day before, and he wonders if she met this fate. Bile rises in his throat. This is too much. 

Tempering his anger, he drags his eyes from the sight and towards Rumlow.

“Hey!”

***

Rumlow swirls around. His eyes widen when he sees Steve. He takes a step back, face draining of color. “Wha—Cap?”

“Put your gun down,” Steve says, gun trained on Rumlow. He moves closer. “It’s not too late. I’m sure they can grant a reduced sentence for you if you come quietly.”

“How the fuck are you alive?” Brock asks, one hand still on his gun.

“Magic.” 

Brock frowns. He slowly bends down to put the gun on the floor. He looks up at Steve—and Steve knows the kind of man Brock is, so he’s prepared for it when Brock kicks out. He moves out of the way. The split second has Brock taking his gun again and firing at him. 

“Why?” Steve asks as he ducks into an open room. It’s stocked with barrels—and behind one, a woman’s head peaks out, wide eyes looking at him. Just over her head, Steve can see the tip of wings. Steve moves behind the open door, not breaking eye contact with the _manananggal_. He holds one of his hands up in a gesture for peace, his gun held between his fingers, while he brings his other hand to his lips to signal quiet. He prays that this is a creature that’s on _their_ side and not HYDRA’s.

The _manananggal_ nods at him and sneaks back behind the barrels.

Steve focuses back on Brock, hearing Brock’s laughter. He knows he doesn’t need to elaborate about his question. Brock’s been on his team for long enough to know that Steve’s _Steve_. Steve believes in the good, in fixing and helping people.

“The world sucks, Rogers," Brock says. Steve hears Brock’s footsteps come nearer. “We need to fix it. You and I agree on that, at the very least. But we’ll never get anywhere they way you want to do it. We need discipline. We need order. And order only comes through pain.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up," Steve says and starts shooting back at Brock. 

There’s a loud screech and the _manananggal_ flies over them, her blood dripping down her waist. She grabs Brock’s gun in her hands and flies towards the end of the corridor, where Steve had entered. Steve barely registers that there are more people down here now, too, fighting. 

He dives for Brock, grappling with him, the blood making his hands slip. Brock shoves him off, kicking at Steve until Steve’s forced to let go. Steve’s gun slides away, towards the other end of the corridor. Brock pulls Steve into a headlock and Steve jams his elbow into Brock’s solar plexus, then brings his fist to Brock’s jaw while Brock’s doubled over in pain. Steve brings Brock’s head to his knee, and slams down hard.

Brock goes down like a ton of bricks.

He wipes his brow and brings his hands to his knees, panting. 

Dimly, Steve hears a warning, but he doesn’t catch the gist—the warehouse is loud, angry screams, bullets, frightened whimpers, the sound of knives and claws in the air.

***

Steve’s got his hand’s on his knees, a few feet over Rumlow’s prone form, panting. He stands, ready to move and help the fight when all of a sudden, a massive blur runs from the staircase.

“SOMEONE SET THE WERE FREE,” A _manananggal_ yells from the rafters. 

The werewolf, a mass of fur and saliva, leaps over the staircase and drops to its haunches in the midst of the fray. 

Bucky blinks as he traps a _manananggal_ who’d just tried to kill him, screaming about HYDRA all the while.

Time seems to stand still as the werewolf slowly straightens, looking around at the assembled creatures. There are more people to his right—where Bucky had ran down, chasing after a creature and a couple of HYDRA agents and knowing Steve had walked downstairs, all alone, earlier. To his left, there’s only Steve and Rumlow’s prone form, blood on their arms. 

The werewolf lunges at Steve.

“NO!” Bucky yells, throwing a magical shield in front of Steve, while keeping his own in place. He misjudges the strength of his power, and already he feels a bigger amount of energy draining him. 

The werewolf bounces back from the force of his shield. 

“Bucky!” Steve cries. He grabs his gun and shoots at the wolf.

“Fuck,” Bucky says. Steve’s shooting fast, taking turns between aiming at the werewolf then at the HYDRA agents. The HYDRA agents had frozen in place and gone pale, before they started running, scrambling up the staircase away from the werewolf. 

_Well, at least that takes care of that for now._ Bucky thinks ironically, trying to tamp down the strength of the shield—he can’t run out of energy, not today. His heart is rabbiting in his chest at the close call, and he files away the fact that the force of the power that came out of him was likely directly tied to his emotions. 

_Focus,_ he thinks. He was trained better than this. “I’ve got a bit of wolfsbane here, just distract him for a bit.” He rummages through his pockets, focusing on keeping the magical shields in place, and trying to find his aconite. 

He knows his shield has lost power and was likely weak in a few places, due to the power he’d used to protect Steve. His hand finally grasps the packet of ground aconite in his pocket, and he pulls it out with shaking hands.

Steve walks towards the werewolf— _the idiot_ , who was taking the bullets in his body and growling. Steve keeps shooting, making it walk backwards towards Bucky.

Steve hears the telltale click of an empty barrel. 

“Buck, I’m out of bullets," Steve says, voice calm. His face is set in grim determination, brows furrowed. He looks like he’s about to do something stupid.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Bucky says, eyes flicking towards Steve. He rips the packet of aconite open.

Steve gives him a shadow of a grin. 

The werewolf growls, bullets already being pushed out of its body, healing. He scents the air.

Bucky knows he has to act now. He chants the spell focusing on the aconite in his hand. It flies towards the werewolf, the ground aconite spinning around him and then moving towards his eyes, nose, and mouth. 

The werewolf _howls_ , so loud it makes the hair on Bucky’s arms raise. Its claws moves towards its face, trying to get at the aconite, but only tearing his face and bleeding. Bucky winces, but keeps the spell going, pushing more aconite into the werewolf, infiltrating it’s airways.

The werewolf lets out a few more howls, claws and face bleeding before it collapses in a heap. He lets out little whimpers and the occasional loud howl. Bucky moves closer, Steve moving toward him in alarm—

“Stay back,” Bucky tells Steve calmly. He draws a circle around the werewolf with aconite, and mutters a spell to keep it trapped inside. Once he’s done, he’s almost next to Steve, right where he closed the circle. He looks up at Steve from his crouch on the floor. “He’s barely alive but if we finish this before daybreak, we can still save him. If he wakes up, he’ll be trapped in the circle.”

Steve nods. He holds a hand out to Bucky. “You all right?”

Bucky grasps Steve’s hand and pulls himself upright. “I’m good.” Just as he says it, he stumbles into Steve, his vision blurring. 

“Hey,” Steve says, voice tinged with worry. His hand automatically grips Bucky’s waist. Hazily, Bucky thinks it would be romantic if it wasn’t so bloody and if the scent of flesh and blood and fur wasn’t in the air.

Bucky closes his eyes, accepting the support and breathing in. “Just one sec.”

“Take your time,” Steve says, warm hands squeezing Bucky’s waist. One of his hands moves up and down Bucky’s back in a slow, soothing motion and Bucky’s heart lurches. He knows Steve is trained to focus, to get the task done. Yet here Steve is, steadying him, making him feel safe and protected.

God, he really likes this guy.

He takes a deep breath and takes a stock of how much energy and power he’s used up from the beginning of the battle, to shielding himself and some of their teammates, to freeing creatures, fighting HYDRA, and taking on a feral werewolf. 

He’s used a _lot_. Damn if he’s gonna admit that, though. He’s detaching himself from Steve, ready to tell him to continue when they hear Clint’s voice.

“Old man, old man!” Clint’s yelling filters down from above. “Old man escaping!”

Steve meets his eyes. As one, they run.

***

Bucky can’t tell if the scene upstairs was worse than when he left it—there’s more blood and bodies, but with more HYDRA agents on the floor than them. Sharon’s transformed into her full form and is grappling with a centaur with a HYDRA symbol tattooed on his pec. At another side of the warehouse, most of the _manananggal_ that were freed from the cages were crouched down, hands over their heads. Natasha, sleeves of her catsuit and hand burned from garlic; Dernier, face weary and blood flowing from a cut on his temple; Gabe, transformed into a centicore with his horns moving in different directions, and Kate covering from the top fought of the last of a few HYDRA agents trying to get to them.

If things were going to plan, the rest would be moving through the other floors, freeing more prisoners, and gathering any evidence. 

Clint is hanging upside down from one of the links in the cages, arrow directed near the entrance of the warehouse, eye squinting as he tries to get a good shot. 

“There!” Bucky says, zeroing in on Pierce after he sees Clint. Pierce has Pietro in a headlock, a gun pressed to his temple. Wanda is in front of him, hands shaking around a gun. 

A _manananggal_ flies through the air and uses her long tongue to rattle the cage Clint is on, making Clint lose his grip.

“Aw, cage!” Clint says, managing to turn his fall into a flip. The _manananggal_ dives after him, tongue trying to wrap around his arrows to toss into a far corner. Clint twists, sees Bucky, gives him a quick nod of understanding and focuses on the _manananggal_ going after him. 

Steve grabs a gun from a fallen HYDRA agent, and he and Bucky walk towards Pierce, keeping low behind crates and cages, hoping the noise in the warehouse would mask their arrival. 

“Isn’t it the greatest irony, that healers cannot heal themselves?” Pierce says, eyes shining.

“I should kill you,” Wanda says, half-sobbing. Her hands are still wrapped around a gun. “For everything you did to my brother. For everything you made me do.”

Pietro is looking at the gun in Wanda’s hands and at Wanda’s face. The werewolf lets out one of its pained howls from below. 

“Do you really want more red on your ledger, little one?” Pierce asks, smirking. “Come along now, come with me and I’ll set your brother free.”

Pietro rasps out a “No,” even as Wanda meets his eyes, conflicted. 

“Drop it, Pierce," Steve says, leveling his gun at Pierce, taking slow measured steps towards him as he walks out from behind a crate. 

Wanda turns towards them too, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “The were! He set it free! You have to get it before it turns anyone.”

Pierce turns his gaze on them, eyes widening in surprise then narrowing, his shock quickly hidden to a mask of indifference. “Back from the dead, Captain Rogers.”

“Your men couldn’t even finish the job," Steve says, finally coming to a stop next to Wanda. Steve feels Bucky next to him, trying to calm Wanda down. 

“Good help is hard to hire nowadays,” Pierce agrees. His eyes flicker to the sides, seemingly searching for something. “You’ve always been a good detective, Rogers. It’s why you got promoted easily. Can you not you see what I’m doing here?”

“Kidnapping children and women?” Steve asks. Bucky snorts. Wanda’s now behind them, protected by their bulk. 

Pierce sighs. “A good detective, but so simple-minded. You don’t see different perspectives, Steven.”

“There’s right and wrong and shades of gray. But from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re inexcusably in the wrong.” Steve’s voice is calm, his hands steady. 

“Perspective, Steven. Do you not see the vision? An orderly, disciplined America. Then, an orderly disciplined world. None of these movements or rubbish.”

“It’s called giving people freedom, you dick," Bucky says helpfully. Steve would kiss him right now, if they weren’t in danger of letting a crazy old man run free. 

Pierce narrows his eyes at him. “Freedom is overrated.”

“Turn yourself in Pierce," Steve says.

“I’m afraid I can’t," Pierce says. He looks around again, the light in his eyes dimming as he realizes he’s outnumbered and it would take awhile for any help to come to him. “Let’s trade, shall we? This boy’s life and the girl goes with me. You’ve got a werewolf in the premises to catch. Can’t have it turning everyone, can we?”

He frowns as he tries to look behind Steve and Bucky for Wanda.

“Go!” Bucky yells, and uses his power to shield Pietro. Wanda emerges from behind Pierce—having hidden behind Steve and Bucky, then the crates nearby, to double back and move behind Pierce—to shoot him. Pierce yells in pain as the bullet goes cleanly through his shoulder. 

Pietro surges free and moves to wrestle Pierce to the ground, Steve not following far behind. Wanda collapses to her knees, hands still gripping the gun, her eyes trained on Pierce.

***

They win. They’re bruised and bloody—but they win.

Steve thinks there should be police outside by now. They don’t have the help of a _tikbalang_ to hide the location or lead anyone astray and the warehouse isn’t exactly a hidden location once Gardo’s protection is gone. They didn’t have anyone with a similar skill set who was willing to volunteer their service for the mission. With all the noise they’ve definitely made, a patrol car or two would’ve been dispatched.

He’s ready to stake his life and job to defend the people he’s with, to keep them safe.

But when they walk out of the warehouse, it’s to the quiet of the night. Natasha is leading the way with a crowd of creatures behind her. She doesn’t seem surprised, already talking in low voices with Clint, Dugan, and Falsworth. Steve observes them for a few seconds, the efficient and practiced way they communicate, and it tells him all he needs to know—whatever she’s doing to keep secrets safe, she isn’t alone—and it’s a lot more organized than he originally thought.

They’ve been walking for roughly a mile when they see it. Leaning against a street lamp on the pavement a few feet away, sits a familiar figure, long, bony legs bracketing his head.

“Hello,” Gardo says, looking at Steve and Bucky as they stop in front of him.

“You came back,” Bucky says, grinning. 

“I came back," Gardo agrees. “I suppose I wanted to see if the nightmare would end.”

Steve bumps into Bucky’s shoulder. 

The nightmare is over. One of the _manananggal_ lets out a joyful sob, pointing up at the sky. 

Dawn breaks over the horizon. 

It’s a new day.


	13. Epilogue: The Fallout

“So. We made it.” Bucky says, after he’s closed the door to his apartment. 

“Yeah. We did.” Steve says, eyes darting over Bucky’s features, his eyes, mouth, his shoulders. He drinks Bucky in, the gold lines on his left arm that were glowing full of magic earlier, the bloodstains on his jeans. His heart feels full, relief and happiness crashing into him that they’re whole and safe and _alive_. 

When Steve looks back up, Bucky’s gaze is full of heat that it almost takes his breath away. He feels the electricity between them building as their gazes lock. 

Steve takes a step forward and all of a sudden, they’re crashing into each other. 

Steve kisses Bucky, hot and hungry, his hands gripping Bucky’s waist. Bucky’s arm wraps around him, pulling him in, scrabbling at the collar of his shirt. Steve traps Bucky between his body and the front door, just wanting to touch him _everywhere_.

Bucky makes a pleased sound as Steve’s lips bite softly down on his lip, his legs splaying open. Steve takes the invitation to grind his thigh in between Bucky’s legs, enveloped in the scent of fire, sweat, and _Bucky_.

“Steve,” Bucky moans, his hands fluttering over Steve’s shoulders, squeezing.

Right then and there, Steve decides he’d do anything to hear more of those sounds fall from Bucky’s mouth.

They stumble into Bucky’s bedroom, Steve’s hands moving on their own and tossing their clothes behind them along the way, until they’re down to their boxers. 

“Fuck,” Bucky groans as Steve bites down on the pale skin of his collarbone as they hit the bed. Steve soothes the bite with his tongue, already working his way back up to Bucky’s jaw and to his lips. 

Bucky’s arms wrap around his bare shoulders, the magical one cool to the touch. Steve shivers a little and Bucky breaks away quickly. The sheets rustle behind his shoulders. 

“Hm?” Steve asks, leaning up on his elbows, blinking down at Bucky. He probably looks punch-drunk, heart beating too fast, blood thrumming through his veins. He takes a slow breath to calm down and focuses on Bucky. 

Bucky’s hair is splayed on the pillow, and Steve already knows he’s going to love running his hands through it. 

Bucky licks his lips, eyes alight in worry. “Is the arm bothering you?”

Steve bends down and kisses Bucky’s cheek, working his way back to Bucky’s lips, gently trying to soothe his worries away. He hovers over Bucky’s mouth, so close their breaths are mingling, and whispers, “No,” before catching Bucky’s lips in another kiss. When they break apart, Steve smiles at him. “Didn’t expect it to be cold is all. It always looks warm whenever you’re using magic.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, blinking up at him, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing in Steve’s eyes. 

“We good?” Steve asks, kissing behind Bucky’s ear. He grinds down, a slow roll of his hips, showing Bucky that his arm doesn’t affect him in the least. 

Bucky groans, knees tightening around Steve’s waist. “You like me,” Bucky says, his tone both soft and smug. His eyes are shining, but with a resolve that seems like he’s decided on something. Slowly, he loops both arms around Steve’s neck again. 

Steve huffs out a laugh, his mouth working its way down Bucky’s chest. His lips catch on nipple and he sucks the nub into his mouth. Bucky arches against him, breathless. Steve keeps to his quest to map Bucky’s body with his mouth, tongue laving over Bucky’s other nipple, then licking the planes of Bucky’s abs. 

“I do,” Steve says softly, chin resting on Bucky’s abdomen, looking into Bucky’s gray eyes. His fingers are looped around the waistband of Bucky’s boxers. “So fucking much.”

“Looks like it’s your lucky day,” Bucky says as Steve peels off his boxers and tosses them aside. “I like you too, punk.”

Steve gives a hum of assent as he settles over Bucky’s legs, his large hands bracketing Bucky’s waist. “I think,” Steve says seriously. “You’re the one about to get lucky.”

Steve feels that Bucky’s about to say something, but he doesn’t give him a chance, his mouth slowly taking Bucky in, covering him in wet, warm heat. 

Bucky lets out a loud groan that goes straight to Steve’s dick. He pushes his own erection to the mattress, seeking friction as he works his mouth up and down Bucky’s length, curling his tongue _just so_ around the head. 

Bucky’s hands grips the sheets, his left arm glowing silver. His eyes are closed, his neck arched in pleasure. Entranced, Steve redoubles his efforts and focuses on the head, sucking the precum that spurts from the tip. 

“Ste-ve,” Bucky groans, chest heaving. He’s staring up at the ceiling. “Not gonna last.”

Steves thinks that this—the first time—it’s not going to last for either of them, not with the adrenaline, and the days of wanting and waiting. 

But that’s alright—because firsts are beginnings. There’ll be a second, and a third, and a fourth, and—hopefully forever.

He strokes Bucky, keeping a rhythm in counterpoint with his mouth. With his other hand, he rolls Bucky’s balls in the palm of his hand, before his finger dips lower and rubs against his perineum. 

Bucky’s back arches off the bed as he screams in pleasure, cum shooting down Steve’s throat. His left arm is glowing bright, bright, _bright_.

***

“Does it always do, that?” Steve asks.

Bucky blinks up at him, still dazed. He probably looks fucked out, his eyes warm, expression lazy. Steve smirks down at him, his eyes taking in Bucky, the soft glow of his left arm against the dark.

“Oh,” Bucky says lifting his arm and looking at the silver lines between the black. It’s never done that before; his arm usually glows gold when he uses magic. 

“I’ve only done this a couple of times with the arm on.” Bucky admits, clenching his fist and twisting his arm to look at the silver lines. He doesn’t wear the arm much, so any fucking he’d done with it on usually meant Bucky had an adrenaline-fueled fuck after a fight. “But it’s never done this before.” When he looks up again, Steve looks surprised, touched, and then downright smug about it.

God, he looks like someone Bucky wants to keep. 

“Don’t be so smug,” Bucky says, closing his legs and half-heartedly hitting Steve’s ribs with his knees. He knows he’s blushing. 

Steve lets out a hum of assent, leaning down to kiss him. Their breaths mingle together, tongues tangling together softly. 

“You have lube?” Steve asks, hands sliding over Bucky’s thighs. 

“Drawer,” Bucky says, hand slipping below Steve’s boxers and closing around his dick. Steve mutters a curse as he knocks over something on Bucky’s desk. Bucky snickers. 

Bucky turns around, getting up on all fours. He hasn’t done this in a while, and on his knees is always the easiest for him for the first time. Behind him, he feels Steve shuffle, before he sees Steve’s boxers land on the floor. 

He feels the cold spread of lube on his inner thighs, palms gently caressing his skin. He turns to Steve, brows together in confusion. Steve shakes his head, a tinge of red on his cheeks. “I’m too close.”

He’s right—Steve’s dick is bobbing straight up, the thick length red and ready to burst.

“Close your legs for me, Buck?” Steve asks, voice low, and Bucky thinks he’d do anything Steve asked if he used that voice. He feels Steve’s lips working his way up his back.

“Come on, then.” Bucky says, wiggling his ass. Steve groans behind him, and all of a sudden Bucky feels Steve’s warmth all around him, chest on his back, arms and legs bracketing his, his warm length between Bucky’s clasped thighs. 

Steve moves against him, tucking his face into Bucky’s neck. 

“Can’t wait ‘til I have you in me,” Bucky says, pressing back against him. He shivers as Steve’s thrusts slide against his thighs, Steve’s cock brushing against the underside of his balls. “Or me in you, am not picky. Can’t wait til I can take my time with you, take you apart.”

Bucky feels Steve’s breath against his neck, his chest heaving against his back, his hard nipples brushing against Bucky’s shoulder blades. When Bucky shifts upwards and presses his back even more into Steve’s chest, Steve groans. 

“Buck,” Steve pants, hips stuttering. “So close.”

Bucky tightens his legs, his heart beating fast against his ribcage. He wants to take Steve there, make him feel as good as Steve made him feel. “Hey Stevie?” 

Steve lets out an incoherent mumble.

“I really like you.” Bucky says as he arches his neck to the side in invitation and he hears Steve groan before he clamps down on Bucky’s neck as he comes, shuddering.

***

The news breaks the next day. The news ticker reads ALEXANDER PIERCE ACCUSED OF HUMAN TRAFFICKING in bold white letters across a red banner. Right after it, the words FIVE POLICE OFFICERS ALSO SUSPECTS IN TRAFFICKING RING.

Steve sits on the La-Z boy in Bucky’s living room, wearing only a pair of sweatpants remote control on one hand. He rubs his other hand across his face, already forseeing the amount of press damage the news will bring to the police force. Looks like he’s got his plate full, after he comes back from his “scheduled leave.”

On the tv, a woman sobs, “He said he’d help me get a green card.” Her clothes are disheveled, her hair in disarray. She’s covering her face with her hands. 

With the amulet pinned on his waistband, Steve can see that her right wing is torn. He remembers her, blood seeping from a scratch on her face after the fight. Her cut’s stitched now, but her face is still bruised. 

“They recruit many, many of us,” she said, stumbling over her English. “Say they give us work.” 

The camera pans out to a long line of women huddled in plastic chairs, thick blankets over their shoulders. The reporter starts talking, giving some more details about the case. She lists the number of other suspects involved, which Steve knows tallies to around the same number as the human HYDRA agents. The word HYDRA isn’t mentioned but a different name is given for Pierce’s organization, which Steve supposes makes sense. The supernatural world wouldn’t want humans looking too closely HYDRA, at what was really going on and who they were really kidnapping and using. He can guess that the supernatural creatures who voluntarily joined HYDRA were taken in by Nat’s team too.

The door to Bucky’s bedroom opens. 

“Morning,” Bucky says, padding into the living room. He looks soft around the edges, hair still mussed, pillow marks on his temple. He’s put on a shirt, the left sleeve tied in a knot. 

Steve’s heart trips a little at the sight. 

“Hey,” Steve says. He spots the bruising on Bucky’s neck, peeking through his shirt collar, and a warmth fills his stomach. He motions towards the television. “Hope you don’t mind.”

Bucky shakes his head. He rakes his eyes over Steve’s form, a slight smirk on his lips. “No, I don’t mind at all.”

Steve huffs out a laugh. He leans back on the La-Z boy, putting more of his body on display, enjoying the way Bucky’s gaze flicks over him. “So that’s Nat doing her job, huh?” Steve asks, motioning to the TV with the remote. 

“Yep.” Bucky replies, stifling a yawn, as he walks over to sit on the arm of the La-Z boy. 

Steve hums and wraps his arm around Bucky, nosing at his shoulder. Bucky smells good, like embers and earth and _him_. He drops a kiss to his shoulder. “Breakfast?”

“Sure, I’ll have breakfast.” Bucky says, looking down at him with a smirk. 

“Oh?” Steve asks. He can feel his pulse quicken. 

Bucky slips into his lap, the La-Z boy straining back against their weight. Steve’s arms come up around Bucky’s waist easily, holding him steady. “We should probably move.” Steve murmurs, looking up into Bucky’s eyes, then down to his mouth. 

“Mhmm,” Bucky says, like he’s pretending to think about it. He leans down and Steve parts his lips under Bucky’s questing tongue. Bucky’s hand moves down Steve’s shoulder, a soft and gentle touch that makes Steve crave for _more_. He pulls Bucky closer, slotting their hips together—Steve isn’t wearing anything under his sweatpants, and Bucky’s boxers are thin. They grind together, slow and teasing. 

Steve blinks, dazed when they break apart. Bucky starts mouthing his way down Steve’s neck, his palm flat on Steve’s chest, just laying there, barely touching his nipple. Steve’s lips part in pleasure. He wants _more_ and he never thought he could be teased so easily like this. He arches back unconsciously for more contact, feeling Bucky’s grin against his neck before fingers finally find his nipple. 

“Bucky,” Steve moans, one hand scrabbling to get at Bucky’s hair to lead him back to his mouth as Bucky’s rolls his nipple between his fingers. Bucky lets him, and they kiss before Bucky moves down his chest, body moving in a sinuous line until he’s kneeling on the floor between Steve’s legs. 

Steve swallows, his mouth watering at the sight. 

“We could move,” Bucky says, grinning. He strips his shirt off, tossing it behind him in one fluid move. He rubs the soft material of Steve’s sweatpants against Steve’s calf, slowly moving upwards. “Or you could stay there.”

“Whatever you want,” Steve says. Bucky winks at him, mouth moving over the thin cotton, up Steve’s calf, his thigh, to Steve’s straining erection. He helps Bucky ease his waistband down enough just so his dick pops free.  
Bucky’s hand curls around him, soft and teasing. “I didn’t get to do this last night.” 

“Lots of things we didn’t get to do last night,” Steve agrees as he tries to keep his breathing under control. 

“We could start a list,” Bucky says, lips sliding over the head of Steve’s dick. He keeps his eyes on Steve, and Steve feels frozen in place, breath punched out of his lungs. Steve’s thighs shake at the effort not to thrust into that beautiful mouth. 

Bucky’s eyes are full of mirth, as if saying _well, that won’t do_. Steve feels the vibrations around his dick as Bucky hums around his mouthful. He groans, his hand reaching out to Bucky’s hair, fingers tangling through the strands, just to ground himself. 

Bucky works him over, licking all over his length before peeling back and swallowing him down. Steve’s fingers scrabble for purchase on the chair. Bucky makes encouraging noises against him, his hand curling around Steve’s calf.

“Ngh,” Steve groans, his hips lifting minutely, his other hand clenching around his handful of Bucky’s hair, guiding him up and down his length. “Fuck.”

Bucky peels back and sucks the head of Steve’s cock in earnest, his tongue rubbing a constant pressure against the sensitive underside. His eyes flick up back at Steve.

And just like that, Steve feels himself flying over the edge.

“Bucky!” He gasps. He doubles over as he comes, his legs bracketing Bucky’s shoulders, his fingers still in Bucky’s hair. 

Steve pants, leaning back against the chair, dimly aware of his sweat sticking to the leather. 

“So,” Bucky says brightly. He’s still on the floor between Steve’s splayed legs, lips sinfully red, hair a mess, and the top of his cock is peeking out from the top of his boxers and drooling against his abs. “Breakfast?”

***

The bass of the latest Top 40 remix thrums through S.H.I.E.L.D., the lights dancing in time to the beat. The dance floor is _packed_ and all the tables are full.

Bucky walks towards a table in the corner with a can of Budweiser in his hand. He’d had a long day, talking to the twins—Pietro and Wanda—and introducing them to some people who might be able to help them with lodging (Mrs. Van Dyne has a spacious house and regularly opens them to transient supernaturals) and work. Clint, Nat, Sam and Riley are seated around a booth, talking. Riley’s making big gestures and saying something emphatically.

Almost as soon as he arrives and gives his greetings, Steve steps behind him and wraps an arm around his waist, nose burying in his neck.

“Ugh, gross.” Sam says, making a face at them. 

“Long day?” Bucky asks Steve, chuckling. He leans back against Steve’s warmth, right hand moving up to gently pat at Steve’s golden locks. 

“Mhmm.” Steve says, lifting his chin to rest on Bucky’s shoulder instead. “Riley, do you think you could cover the system basics with the new hire coming in this week?”

While they talk shop, Bucky takes a look around S.H.I.E.L.D.. Some of the people they’d saved a few weeks ago are timidly on the dance floor or crammed into tables, tentatively testing out some semblance of normalcy after years of being with HYDRA. Some, like Gardo, had gone back home. Near the back of the bar, the Howling Commandos have commandeered their own table. They’d taken the feral werewolf from the warehouse and brought him to a hospital, where he’s still being treated for malnutrition. 

Morita sees Bucky looking in their direction and lifts up a glass in greeting. Bucky nods back, lifting his own can. He knows he can always trust the Commandos. 

Maria is sitting at the bar, engaged in a rapid conversation with Sharon. Next to them, Bruce is talking to manticore that Bucky knows works as a surgeon upstate, a frown between his brows. 

Bucky smiles. They are all here, alive, and healthy. 

He looks back down at the table. Nat is sitting next to Clint, whispering something in his ear. Clint smiles in response, arms crossed over his chest. 

Riley squints at them from across the table. “Are you two discussing super secret supernatural spy stu—”

“Oh man, no.” Sam says, one hand moving towards Riley’s mouth and covering it. “He didn’t say anything.”

Nat just flicks one eyebrow at them coolly.

“Nope,” Clint says jovially, winking at Riley. “We were talking about super secret sex stuff.”

Bucky snorts into his beer, and he feels Steve snickering into his shoulder.

“And that is why we don’t ask,” Sam says, shaking his head. Riley bites his hand. “Hey!”

Bucky laughs, his heart feeling so full it could burst. His friends are all safe. His family is safe. His community is safe. And he has— 

Steve’s arm squeezes his waist, grounding him. “You good?” Steve asks into his neck, lips barely touching skin. 

He has _this._

Bucky turns and drapes his arm over Steve’s shoulder, fingers lightly caressing the back of his neck. He looks into Steve’s eyes, still a starting blue even in the dark lights of the bar. 

Bucky grins. “I’m _super_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this has been one of the biggest challenges for me. I've wanted to write about _manananggal_ for a long time and I wanted to write something like a mystery, so I challenged myself to do it for [CapBB](http://cabigbang.tumblr.com). I'm never writing plot again HAHAHAHA ♥
> 
> You can find all the art posted on [angstassart](https://angstassart.tumblr.com/)'s Tumblr on the [mayatwb tag](https://angstassart.tumblr.com/tagged/mayatwb). Like and reblog to give them some love! You can also find our [masterpost here](http://talkplaylove.tumblr.com/post/179512255429/me-an-you-and-the-world-between-a-collaboration), if you'd like to reblog it on Tumblr. ♥
> 
>  **Thank you so, so much** to Gerry and Julia for poking and prodding at the plot holes and loose threads and talking things through with me—this would be such an extremely confusing fic to read if it weren't for you both; to Mari for being a detailed SPAG beta; and of course, to my artist angstassart, who has been a joy to work with and kept surprising me with additional artwork for this fic, up until the very end. Thanks to the CapBB mods!  
> 
> 
> And of course, if you read this, thank you. ♥


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